


Deck the Halls

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mind Healer, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 21:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 35,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17670650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: Harry's life hasn't turned out as he expected... divorced and alone and now suffering from nighmares and erratic behavior.





	1. Deck the Halls

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post of my 2014 25 Days of Draco and Harry fic. Prompt was the photo below.

As Draco walked through the Atrium at the Ministry, he couldn’t help but notice the aromatic fragrance of pine hovering in the air. He saw why when he came abreast of the fountain, restored to the pre-second war wizards and magical creatures. (Some had wanted a giant depiction of Potter slaying Voldemort, but saner heads had prevailed. And in one of the few decisions he thought Potter had gotten right, he’d adamantly refused to allow it.) Stacked on the travertine floor was a massive pile of greens; the expected pine but holly and berries and cedar, too. Several witches waved their wands and assembled long, thick garlands that would compare favorably with anything the elves were currently draping around the Manor, and another few levitated the decorations into place and affixed them to the walls with sticking charms. The overall impression was festive and surprisingly elegant, and Draco felt a stirring of delight.

He loved the holidays, Christmas in particular. He and his mother didn’t host the lavish parties that had once been a staple at Malfoy Manor, but the ones they had now were filled with warmth and fondness he would never have imagined finding in any gathering when he’d been a boy. When his father had been in charge before the war, everything was about status. Now, the only guests were Andromeda and Ted, Pansy and her children, possibly Blaise and his offspring and Greg and Millicent and theirs, and Draco had never enjoyed anything more. Narcissa loved playing hostess and planning gifts for all of the children, Scorpius was home from university, and a general air of happy expectation filled halls a madman had once walked. At one time Draco doubted he’d ever feel at home in the Manor again. He should never have doubted his mother’s ability to chase the nightmares from the corners.

He walked down the long hall that led to the offices of the Ministry’s Prosecutors, sparing a nod for a defense solicitor he couldn’t stand as he passed, and a much friendlier one for one of the offices paralegals. She blushed and giggled, and he rolled his eyes behind her back. He knew she’d been crushing on him for months; he wondered what rock she’d been hiding under not to know the only female bits he’d ever touched had been Astoria’s, and that had only been successful due to a particularly strong aphrodisiac potion. After drinking it, he’d have fucked a house elf, he’d been so hard. It had left him feeling faintly disgusted, but Scorpius’s arrival nine months later made up for it. And Astoria’s exiting the Manor when his son was two had just been the icing on the cake. Scorpius still saw his mother on occasion, but Draco hadn’t been vexed by her appearance in more than fifteen years. The world was a safer place for everyone because he no longer had to deal with her. 

He entered the office he shared with Prosecutor Weasley, settling the documents he’d had to fetch from the MLE in the center of his blotter. At one time, the idea of he and Granger-Weasley sharing an office would have been unthinkable. There had been only one person he’d hated more during their school days. She’d been a constant thorn in his side, forever making him second to her superior grades in things he should have excelled at naturally. Arithmancy, Charms. The only places he’d been better had been potions and the DADA practical’s, but then of course he’d been second to the moron who lived. His belief in his superiority as a Pure Blood had been tested well before the war began, and on an almost daily basis. When he’d found out they were both entering the MP’s office at the same time, he’d been positive they’d never be able to work together.

He’d been wrong. Not only did they work together well, but they’d been part of more successful prosecutions than any other assistants in the office. They were now known as ‘the dream team’, and worked almost exclusively for Head Prosecutor Shacklebolt. Everyone believed Kingsley would be the next Minister, and it was divided almost equally between Hermione and Draco as to who their co-workers believed would be the next Head Prosecutor. Interestingly, Draco found he didn’t care. If it was him, he’d count on her brilliance to help him. If it was Hermione, he’d do whatever he could to help her. They’d started out as wary co-workers, but now he counted her as one of his closest friends. When he saw her standing looking out through one of their magical windows, staring out at the manufactured view as if it were real, he paused. Her shoulders looked rounded and everything about her radiated unhappiness.

“Hermione?”

She startled and glanced at him, turning back to the window to wipe at her cheeks, but he’d seen her tears. He frowned.

“Hermione, whatever is the matter?” 

She sniffed and shook her head. “Nothing.” Her voice sounded small and suffocated, and Draco’s alarm grew. 

“Weaslebee hasn’t gone and got himself killed, has he?” Draco thought it a real possibility. How the idiot had ever become an Auror was beyond him.

“No, Ron is fine.”

Draco crossed to her, taking her arm. “It’s not one of the children, then?”

Draco was very fond of Hermione’s children. Rose was every bit as brilliant as her mother, and Hugo was very sweet and charming. The idea that something might have happened to either of them made him feel faintly ill. 

“No, no. The kids are fine, too.” 

She wiped at her cheeks again, and Draco pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to her. She sniffed her thanks and used it to wipe her eyes.

“You’re going to have to tell me, you know,” he said when she handed his handkerchief back. He held it up meaningfully. “I don’t sacrifice my silk handkerchiefs without an explanation for why it had to meet its demise at the hands of eye makeup.”

She shook her head, some of her soft brown curls brushing her cheeks. There were a few strands of silver in her hair now, but there were a few in his as well. They were just harder to see mixed in with the white blond, something he thanked his father for. One of the few things. 

“Only you would carry a silk handkerchief,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t get Ron to do better than jam a tissue in his pocket.” 

“You should have realized that before you married him,” Draco sniffed. “He was never going to rise above tissues.” He said it like it was a dirty word, and she smiled grudgingly.

“Gods, you’re such a bloody snob.”

“And your point is? And no disseminating, solicitor. I recognize a shameless attempt to change the subject when I see it.” He gently touched her arm. “Seriously, Hermione. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you in tears in this office. Whatever it is, won’t you let me help?”

She sighed again, her dark eyes looking immeasurably sad. “I don’t think you can, Draco,” she murmured. “I don’t think anyone can.”

He leaned his hip on his desk. “That sounds dire. Why don’t you tell me, and then I can decide if it’s beyond my pay grade.”

She met his gaze, the corner of her lower lip between her teeth. She studied him for a long moment. “You promise not to rush to judgment?”

“Me?” He spread his long fingers on the black solicitor’s robes covering his chest. “When have I ever done that?” Her exasperated expression was miles beyond the sadness that had just been there, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back. At least she wasn’t still crying. “Fine, I may do that occasionally.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off by holding up his hand. “However, even you have to admit I’m a pretty good listener.” She nodded. “So… talk.”

She took a deep breath and blew it out. He started to prod her but she looked so nervous suddenly that he didn’t. Nervous, what conversation could they have that would make her nervous? They talked about almost everything. 

“You haven’t promised,” she whispered finally. He frowned. “Not to judge.”  
:  
“I promise. Now will you just talk to me, please?”

She nodded, pushing at her hair, anchoring it behind her ear. “Well, it’s –“she licked her lips before rushing on, “– it’s Harry.”

Draco stared at her, his heart sinking. It was the one thing they’d agreed early in their friendship not to discuss. 

Harry bloody Potter.


	2. Something Ugly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the below photo.

SOMETHING UGLY

Head Auror Harry Potter stalked through the Ministry Atrium, not even sparing a glance for the witches who meticulously hung garlands from the pillars that flanked the large open space. He passed the Fountain of the Magical Brethren, grateful again that at the end of the war he’d carried enough weight with the wizarding world to prevent the building of the monstrosity someone had titled ‘Our Saviour defeating the Dark Lord’. Christ. ‘Our Saviour’. Just thinking it made his mouth taste sour.

“Afternoon, Head Auror.”

Harry hesitated and glanced up, then stopped when he saw it was Kingsley’s assistant, Marbella Snodgrass, who’d addressed him. She was an old battle ax of a woman with steel grey curls and piercing blue eyes. She also always wore navy blue robes, buttoned up tight under her firm chin, and Harry felt as if she was judging him, somehow, and finding him lacking. 

“Afternoon, Marbella,” he said politely. 

“They’re doing a lovely job, aren’t they?” She gestured to the people working on the massive garlands.

“Yes, very nice. Although I’m scarcely an expert on Christmas décor.” That wasn’t strictly true, he thought. He’d become something of an expert at setting up his Aunt Petunia’s horrible fake tree and stringing the lights on the branches. Of course, once that was done his ‘services’ were no longer needed. No hanging ornaments for him. She hadn’t trusted him with her blown glass trinkets, even though Dudley broke at least five every year. And why the hell he was thinking about that, he couldn’t imagine. He looked down and ran unsteady fingers over his forehead. That seemed to happen to him a lot lately; his thoughts veering off into places he didn’t want it to go, without his permission.

“Are you all right, Mr. Potter?”

He jerked his gaze back to her face. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She looked skeptical. “You’re pale, and your hands are trembling.”

“I… missed lunch. I probably just need something to eat.” He tried for a smile. It felt strained, and she didn’t appear convinced.

“Have your assistant send a message to the cafeteria as soon as you’re back in your office. They can send up tea and scones. I do it for the Minister every afternoon. If I don’t, he’s a bear to deal with.”

“I’ll do that,” he said. Anything to get her to stop looking at him like that.

She nodded and turned away, and Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. The woman unnerved him. 

He started off again when up ahead he caught sight of a tall, lithe man with white blond hair, wearing the tailored black robes of the Prosecutors office. His heart jumped into his throat and pounded there. He only saw him from the back, but he’d know the strong shoulders and graceful stride anywhere. Harry stumbled and righted himself with a muffled curse, angry that seeing the man should have any effect on him at all.

He knew Malfoy was at the Ministry. Their offices worked together, for Merlin’s sakes. Harry’s division was responsible for catching the bad guys, the Prosecutor’s office was responsible for putting them away. There was no way they could avoid one another completely. But usually he had some warning, and opportunity to prepare himself. Usually, he could face him impassively. But he just hadn’t been able to: he’d known Malfoy was coming for the files on the Skyler case, so he’d made an excuse to go … he shook his head and turned down a different hallway from the one Malfoy had taken. He couldn’t remember where he’d been headed, truthfully. He just knew he couldn’t come face to face with – him. Not today. 

He entered the outer office of the MLE, a nagging headache behind his eyes that he’d been ignoring all day blossoming into full blown pain, pounding in rhythm with his heart. He kept a stock of headache potions in his desk, but he was fairly certain he’d downed the last one the day before. At one point, he’d had headaches only rarely. Now it seemed he was plagued with them daily. Hermione kept trying to get him to see a Healer, saying the headaches and loss of appetite were symptoms of something deeper. All it did was irritate him, but most things seemed to irritate him lately.

“Auror Potter?”

He stopped and turned, finding one of the latest class of recruits, Josephillian Smith approaching. The idea that this very bright, very capable recruit was Zacharias Smith’s daughter still amused him. Zach had gone into politics and had somehow managed to gain a seat in the Wizengamot. Harry thought he was a blowhard, but he’d thought that when they were in school, too.

“Yes, Smith? What is it?”

“Auror Weasley is in Interrogation six. He sent me to ask you to join him.”

Harry nodded, tempted to make a detour by his desk first, just to see if there actually might be one last pain potion, but he turned and followed Josephillian instead. They went back out of the office to the lifts that took them down into the bowels below the ministry.

Adjacent to the old courtrooms were several holding cells and interview rooms. Harry and the young woman went to the one nearest the lifts, and Harry knocked before opening the door.

Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan stood at the far end of the room in their red Auror uniforms. Seamus had his feet planted and his arms crossed, but Ron was leaning over what looked like a teenager seated at a table. The boy was pale and wide-eyed and looked scared to death. Harry frowned, wondering what the kid had done.

“You asked for me?” 

All eyes turned toward him, and if Harry thought the prisoner had looked frightened before it was nothing compared to the expression on his face when he saw Harry. 

“Oh, my God,” the boy rasped, visibly shaking. “Merlin save me.”

“Too late for that,” Ron said, straightening, and Harry thought he looked pleased at the youngster’s reaction. “This suspect was arrested for harassment and malicious mischeif, Head Auror. He’s been bullying an elderly neighbor. Apparently he didn’t like the fact she told his father he was sneaking out at night, taking a short cut through her rear garden. I should add this lady lost her husband and two sons during the war. In retaliation for what he thought of as her nosiness, he began turning up in her yard wearing black robes--” he lifted something he’d been holding and slammed it down on the table, making the boy jump, “--and _this_ , scaring the poor woman half to death.”

All of Harry’s attention was instantly fixed on the item, vibrating, on the wooden tabletop. 

He felt all of the blood drain from his face and a ringing started in his ears. There on the table, still rocking slightly from the force of Ron’s fist, was a silver mask. One of the Death Eater Masks, a hideous creation of pounded silver, intricate designs etched into the surface. The eyes and nostrils were black holes, but the mouth had what looked like metal bars over the opening, and for one hideous moment Harry was certain he was going to throw up. Then rage burst to life inside of him, forcing the bile back down. 

He wasn’t sure what happened next; he only knew he was so angry he seemed to fly across the room. Everything turned into a raw, red haze and fire was burning him from the inside, out. A voice shouted his name from what sounded like a great distance, over and over again, but he couldn’t make himself respond. He was too far away, too far gone. Too lost.

He came abruptly back to himself when his back was slammed hard into the stone wall. He gasped for air like he’d been under water, and saw it was Ron who was holding him pinned there, his blue eyes wide and his face flushed.

“Merlin’s testes, Harry. I wanted you to scare him, not kill him!”

“What?” Harry wheezed. “I… what?”

He looked over Ron’s shoulder and saw the boy in question lying sprawled on the floor, his chest rising and falling rapidly. There was an ugly red mark around his pale throat, as if someone had grabbed and squeezed, and his eyes were wide with terror. Horror filled Harry at the sight.

“I hate to admit it, mate, but I think Hermione might be right.” Harry’s eyes went back to Ron’s and he saw concern on his old friend’s face. Ron lowered his voice. “This isn’t like you, Harry. Something isn’t right.”

Harry’s eyes sought out the boy again, who was now looking at him the same way he’d seen people look at Voldemort, with the same fear, and the urge to vomit warred with the urge to curl up in a ball and sob. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “Yeah.”

Something wasn’t right.


	3. Something Vexing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

SOMETHING VEXING

Ordinarily, Draco Floo’d directly into the Manor’s downstairs sitting room. It was handy, and he didn’t have to wear bulky outer wear if the weather was bad. But the windows in the sitting room faced west, taking advantage of every bit of whatever light there was on a December afternoon, and his mother was almost always sitting in her chair, working at a loom or with a hoop on yet another piece of intricate needlework. Today, because Narcissa had always been able to read his face, Draco decided to Apparate just inside the Manor’s gates and attempt to get his thoughts in order so he could keep them to himself. He never had been able to where his mother was concerned, which had led to some excruciatingly embarrassing moments when he’d been in his teen years.

It was a chilly afternoon, and he absently cast a warming charm and another to protect his expensive shoes as he started off over the thin layer of crusty snow to the imposing mansion at the top of the hill. Each step made a satisfying crunching sound. The rumor mill at the Ministry, which was extremely active if not always accurate, had been in overdrive all afternoon. When Draco heard whispering about Potter having some sort of meltdown not an hour after Hermione had confessed her concerns to him, he’d initially considered his brilliant friend might have engineered a set up. But almost immediately he realized that was a disservice to his friend, and unlikely. She didn’t know there was any reason he’d care; not at the level he did. And he did, damn it.

When she’d first mentioned Potter’s name, he stiffened, and she’d turned away.

“Never mind,” she whispered. “I know there’s no love lost there.”

Interesting choice of words, Draco thought wryly. “No, if you’re this upset by it I would be a terrible friend not to at least listen to you.”

She done something uncharacteristic for their friendship; she thrown her arms around him in a crushing hug. Sturdy grip for a girl, had Hermione.

“Oh, thank you! I really don’t know who else to talk to, and I’m so worried!”

“What about Ronald?” he asked archly. She shook her head.

“He just dismisses my concerns. He sees that Harry continues to function at work, and so he tells himself everything is fine. But it isn’t, Draco. It isn’t fine at all.”

They’d pulled their desk chairs into the space between their desks, ordered tea, and she’d talked. And the more she talked, the deeper Draco’s disquiet had grown. 

“He doesn’t sleep,” Hermione began. “He’s always been nocturnal; he used to be able to sneak out in the middle of the night and get food from his horrible relatives kitchen, at least on the nights they forgot to lock his door. Hideous people. But I don’t think he’s sleeping more than three or four hours a night.”

Draco carefully schooled his features not to respond. There had been enough books written about ‘the chosen one’ that the details of his early life were pretty widely known.

“He has no appetite, and he’s lost enough weight that he looks positively haggard.”

He had to admit, on the rare occasion he saw Potter, Draco had noticed the new sharpness of his features. He had assumed that like the silver that now threaded through the black hair at Potter’s temples, it was a product of aging. An attractive part of aging, at least in the prat’s case. But he had noted the dark circles under his almost too large eyes. And the perpetually unhappy set of the full lips. That was new, too.

“How much of this is the product of the divorce?” Draco asked.

Hermione sighed. “Some of it, I imagine.” She glanced towards their office door and leaned forward. “He left her, you know.”

Draco felt his brows shoot toward his hairline. “That’s certainly not how the media tells it.”

Hermione made a rude noise, very unlike her. “Harry told Ginny he didn’t care what the media thought, and if it made it more comfortable for her, then tell them whatever she wanted. I love Ginny, but in this case she let her pride take the lead. They hadn’t really been happy for years but put a good face on it because of the children. And I suppose she thought it was better to have left Harry Potter than to be left by him.”

“How have the children handled it?” Draco had wondered. Scorpius had been so young when he and Astoria divorced that it hadn’t impacted them one way or the other.

She shrugged. “Al and Lily knew more about what was going on than their parents realized. They both are very supportive of Harry’s decision. James was gone from home before the worst of the tension between them began, and he’s very protective of his mother. But he loves his Dad; I have faith he’ll come around.”

“So you don’t think Harry’s current issues are related to the children?”

She shook her head. “I really don’t.” Her eyes clouded with concern. “But I’m frightened for him, Draco.”

“Frightened, why?”

She sighed. “I’ve always believed Harry was far closer to self-destruction than others realized. I think it stems from his belief that he’d never live through the final confrontation with Voldemort. When he walked into the woods that night…” She paused and shuddered. “Once you’ve been ready to die voluntarily, I wonder if life holds the same value it does to the rest of us. Particularly if you’re miserable.” 

Draco had been more concerned about what he heard than he’d let on. And he didn’t want to care, he really didn’t. Then the rumor mill had gone into overdrive, and after a quick conversation with her husband, Hermione had confirmed there had been an incident with a suspect in an interrogation room. She’d seemed resigned, as if she’d just been waiting for something to happen. And Draco supposed she had.

He entered the Manor through the massive front doors, and saw that his mother was well into the holiday decorating process. The white marble staircases that arched gracefully upwards like open arms were adorned with fragrant cedar near the bottom, but dressed with fluffy white garlands made up of white lilies and roses across the upper balcony and leading to it from both sides. Between the staircases was a lovely antique sideboard and on top of it was a silver urn, full of more lilies and roses and holiday greens, and he could smell them from where he stood. His mother placed a stasis charm on all of the flowers in the Manor; those would look the same on Boxing Day as they did at that moment. 

He closed the doors and headed for the stairs, still feeling a bit unsettled and longing for his room and a bath, but he should have known better.

“Draco?”

He stopped with a resigned inner sigh. “Yes, mother.” He smoothed his features before turning toward the sitting room he’d tried to avoid.

She was standing framed in the doorway, every white blonde hair in place, lovely in a set of pale blue robes that mirrored the color of her eyes. She angled her head slightly. “You walked?”

He approached her, leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek. She smelled of gardenias, a fragrance he would forever associate with her. 

“Your lips are cold. Why ever did you walk instead of using the Floo?”

“I just wanted to clear my head.”

She studied his face. He thought he did a good job of keeping his features clear. 

“Trying day?”

He took her opening and ran with it. “Yes. Several vexing set backs on cases we’re in the middle of.”

She nodded. “Well, come sit for a few moments. I have tea waiting for you.”

He followed her with relief. Tea sounded wonderful. Warming charms only went so far.

He settled into a comfortable chair in front of the fire, gratefully drank two cups of tea and ate two dainty cucumber sandwiches and made small talk with his mother. He told her all the latest gossip, carefully leaving out the bits about Potter, and was about to excuse himself to take a bath when she calmly folded her hands in her lap and studied him with a serene expression.

“So, have you any intention of telling me what really necessitated the walk this afternoon, or will you leave me to worry over it.”

Draco sighed. “There’s really nothing for you to worry about, Mother. Just something… vexing at work.”

“You expect me to believe that you walked all of the way from the gates on a frigid afternoon because something at work was ‘vexing’? Draco, you detest walks.” She continued to study him with impassive features, and he could see she wasn’t going to let it go. 

“I heard something today I found… troubling.” He hesitated, and then gave up. “About Potter.”

“Ah.” She settled more comfortably into her chair with a sage nod. “Or course.”

“Or course?” Draco said, irritated. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘of course’, darling,” she answered mildly. “After all, you and Mr. Potter have unfinished business, don’t you?”

He studied her lovely face, his heart sinking. 

That was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it?


	4. A Liability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

A Liability 

There was a huge fireplace in the Minister for Magic’s office, and during the winter months a fire always burned there. Harry stared into the flames, waiting to be summoned. It took every bit of self-possession he had to sit casually in the deep chair, his face impassive as he watched the flames. But he could feel the eyes on him from across the room. Marabella was staring, but he wouldn’t let her see him fidget. It had been a long time since he’d felt the threat of some sort of disciplinary action, but he wasn’t kidding himself; he knew he was in trouble here.

The kid he’d attacked had been convinced not to sue the Ministry, primarily because his parents were so horrified by what he’d done. His own grandparents had been members of the first Order of the Phoenix; his parents were so embarrassed that he’d been harassing their elderly neighbor with a Death Eater mask they were happy the Ministry decided not to press charges. The whole thing was neatly tidied up by that evening. Or so they’d thought.

Apparently the parents gratitude lasted right up until Rita Skeeter and the _Daily Prophet_ showed up, offering them an obscene amount of money for their story. Harry knew that none of his people had spoken to the media, but there had been the medi-witch brought in to assess the boy’s throat, just to assure them he wasn’t actually hurt. And then there had been the Minister’s staff, because of course he had to be appraised of what had happened. Harry didn’t trust any of those ass kissers as far as he could pick them up and throw them. And he had enemies of his own within the Ministry; it could have been any one of a dozen people who had sent Skeeter a discreet heads up. 

When the story hit the paper that morning, complete with the lurid head line, “HEAD AUROR POTTER ATTACKS DEFENSELESS SIXTEEN YEAR OLD”, he’d been waiting for the summons that precipitated where he was right now. He’d even gone to his crappy flat during his lunch hour and fetched his formal robes. If he was going to be sacked, he decided, he was going to be sacked wearing the regalia of his office. He was the youngest Head Auror in the history of the Ministry. He’d thought it couldn’t hurt to remind Minister Snodgrass of that. Snodgrass apparently didn’t care, Harry thought as he checked his Mickey Mouse watch for the dozenth time. It had been a gift from Lily, and it never failed to make him smile, even now. His appointment had been at three, and it was now three fifty two. He decided he’d give Snodgrass ten more minutes, and then Minister or no, he was walking out. There was only so much his pride could take.

“Head Auror Potter?”

Harry stiffened, then turned his head. Marbella stood beside him. He hadn’t even heard her approach, he’d been so pre-occupied. 

“He’ll see you now.”

Harry nodded and stood stiffly. The damned chairs in the Minister’s outer office were miserable. He wondered if they did that on purpose. He straightened to walk to the inner office door when he felt a light touch on his arm. He looked down and was surprised to find Marbella’s small hand on his arm. He lifted his eyes to her face. She was looking up at him earnestly.

“I happen to agree with what you did,” she said, her voice very soft. “What a horrible thing for that boy to do, to harass that poor woman with her worst nightmare. I’d have wanted to strangle the little shit myself.”

Harry felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. “Thank you, Bella,” he murmured, using the nickname he’d once heard a friend of hers use. “But as Head Auror, I should have known better.”

“As the Minister’s executive assistant, so should I.” She winked at him and walked back to her desk.

Harry squared his shoulders, walking forward as the large office door swung open. He entered and waited just inside the door for the Minister, who was seated at a huge mahogany desk on a slight riser, to look up and acknowledge him. There was a spotlight shining down on his head, and the whole thing was a little theatrical for Harry’s taste. Even without the spotlight and the riser, Minister Snodgrass was an imposing man; he had a full head of wavy silver hair and broad shoulders. Reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose, and he was writing on a heavy piece of parchment with a trimmed quill. The scratching sounded loud in the quiet office. Harry planted his feet and clasped his hands in front of him, and waited. He wouldn’t move again until the Minister summoned him.

It was at least five minutes. Without looking up, Snodgrass finally lifted a hand and waved him forward. 

“Please have a seat, Head Auror,” he said, apparently reading over what he’d just written. He didn’t raise his eyes, which irritated Harry.

“I believe I’ll stand, thank you, Minister.”

That did get Snodgrass’s attention. He lifted his head, taking his glasses off his nose and looking up at Harry with a frown. He took in Harry’s uniform. “This isn’t a disciplinary meeting, Harry.”

“Forgive me, Minister, but when there’s a headline like there was this morning, and I’m summoned soon after…” He shrugged and still didn’t sit.

Snodgrass sighed. “Harry, please sit down.”

Harry hesitated for another moment, then sat.

Snodgrass set his glasses aside. “I want to repeat, this isn’t a disciplinary meeting. But I did want to speak with you. I’d like to get your version of what happened.”

“My version?” Harry repeated, his jaw tight.

“Harry, you must understand that as the only person of higher rank than you, I had to look into this.” He smiled slightly. “You’ll be glad to know your staff wouldn’t say anything. Even young Miss Smith.” Harry was secretly very pleased but he didn’t let it show. He knew they’d been questioned that morning, but he hadn’t discussed it with them. 

“And Conrad Swanson’s parents, while apparently having no issue taking the _Daily Prophet’s_ money and speaking to Ms. Skeeter, have no intention of suing, which is good news.” He paused, steepling his finger under his chin. “I have to tell you, though, that I’m very concerned.”

“About what, sir?” Harry asked mildly. He expected to have his leadership questioned. He was prepared.

“About you, Harry.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t been prepared for that. “About me, sir?”  
.   
The old man nodded, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “I’ve lived a long time, Harry. I’ve lived through two wars, fought in the first one. I’ve seen many, many men who didn’t experience anything near what you went through having issues long after the war was over.”

Harry stiffened. “Issues?” he said carefully.

“Let me ask you a question.” Snodgrass studied him, his voice mild but his eyes sharp. “Do you remember what happened?” Harry didn’t answer, because he didn’t really remember, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that. Snodgrass nodded sagely, as if he’d spoken. “Let me ask another question; do you have nightmares?” Harry glanced away from the piercing gaze. He couldn’t remember when he didn’t have nightmares. Well, there had been about six months not long after the end of the war, but he didn’t think about those idyllic days anymore… “Do you have trouble sleeping? How’s your appetite?”

Harry didn’t answer, just stared at the floor. He heard the Minister sigh.

“Harry, I’m not the enemy. But I recognize the signs.”

That brought Harry’s eyes back to his face. “Signs of what?” he asked sharply.

“The signs of a young man who has seen too much, and been forced to do things a seventeen year old should never have to.”

“I’m not seventeen any longer, Minister.”

“No, you aren’t. And up until yesterday, with a few exceptions that usually involved lapses in protocol,” he looked amused when he said that, “you’ve done an exemplary job as first an Auror, and now as Head Auror. And then, when one of your Auror’s placed a Death Eater mask on a table that an obnoxious little snot had been using to harass a neighbor, you attacked said young man and might very well have strangled him if one of your own men hadn’t stopped you.”

Harry felt his face heat. 

“You don’t deny it?”

Harry looked back into the Minister’s face. “No, sir.”

Snodgrass nodded. “I wish I could just let this go, Harry,” he said, looking regretful. “But I don’t believe it’s in your best interest that I do so. I’m going to put you on medical leave until after the first of the year…”

“Medical…” Harry sputtered. 

The Minister opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a card. “And, I’m going to suggest you make an appointment with this Healer.” He scrawled something on the back of the card. “I can’t force you to see him,” he went on, “but I suggest you do so in the strongest terms.” He held out the card, and Harry had no choice but to stand and take it out of his hand even though he was seething. “That will be all, Head Auror.” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry bit off and turned to go.

“Harry.”

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. He was furious, but it wouldn’t do for him to let it show. He turned. “Sir?”

“If you won’t see him, please see someone. I’d hate to lose you, but you can’t continue in your current capacity as you are. You’re too big a liability.”

Harry nodded stiffly before he turned and stalked out of the office.

He felt Marbella’s eyes but didn’t pause as he stormed from the Minister’s office. He went back to his own office, stopped just long enough to tell Ron he was leaving and he’d explain later, then used his Floo to go home to his small, shabby flat. He was yanking his uniform violently from his shoulders when the small card the Minister handed him fluttered out of a pocket and to the floor. Livid, he bent and snatched up the card, prepared to throw it into the fire when he saw the writing on the back. Snodgrass had written something there. He held it up to read it.

“This man saved my life,” he’d written. “Please allow him to save yours.”

Harry read the words again. And then again.


	5. An Early Visit and a Snowy Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

He knew it was early for a Saturday morning, especially when Hermione was no doubt preparing for the kids arrival home, but Draco was dying for news. The newspaper, the ruddy rag, had been full of the story on Friday. The brat's parents sold out and spun quite the tale about Potter attacking their son. Then the rumor mill had gone into over drive when Potter was seen going towards the Minister’s office in full formal regalia. Some said he looked as if he was walking to his doom, but Draco rolled his eyes. He doubted Potter looked like he was going to his doom when he HAD been, for Merlin's sake. Draco walked back and forth through the hallway that led to the Ministers office as often as he dared, but once Potter was in the office, he stayed there for an ungodly long time; ultimately Draco had to return to his own office. Rumor had it Snodgrass had demanded his resignation and Potter left in a foul mood, but Draco simply couldn’t believe it was true. The Minister couldn’t be so foolish; his momentary lapse notwithstanding, Potter was… well, he was _Potter_. What kind of fool would ask for _his_ resignation?

Draco cast a muffling charm on his feet before heading down the main staircase. His mother had ears like a cat, and he didn’t want her asking where he was going. He closed the door to her drawing room, making sure it made no sound, then went and knelt in front of the fireplace, using his wand to light a small fire. There was a small ivory bowl full of Floo powder on the hearth, and he tossed some into the flames, waiting until they flared bright green.

“Ron and Hermione Weasley’s drawing room,” he said softly. The flames arched toward the top of the fireplace, and within them he saw Hermione’s tidy drawing room. He could see a half decorated Christmas tree and several packages in varying stages of completion off to one side, rolls of wrapping paper beside them. He leaned into the fire, fought a moment of vertigo that passed quickly, and looked left and right. Seated in an overstuffed chair with his slipper clad feet on an ottoman and a newspaper in his hands was Ron Weasley. He was looking at the fireplace, and he spotted Draco with a sigh of resignation.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, folding the paper.

“Weasley,” Draco replied, keeping the snark from his tone with a will. “Is your wife at home?”

“She’s baking,” Weasley answered with a meaningful look. Hermione was a brilliant litigator and one of the finest minds of their generation, but she wasn’t much of a cook. Both men had had to lie to her about it more than once. “Perhaps if I go and get her, Rosie can save whatever is in the bowl.”

“Oh, is Rose home?” Draco said with pleasure. “I thought it was another week before she arrived.”

“No, she got home last night. Hugo won’t be home from Paris until next weekend.” He stood. “Come on through, Malfoy. If Rosie finds out I was speaking to you and didn’t invite you over, I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t know what kind of spell you’ve cast over the women in my family, but they love you.”

Draco stepped through the flames, brushing the soot from his dark slacks and grey cashmere jumper as he straightened. “Your son is rather fond of me, as well,” he said. Weasley rolled his eyes. 

“Must you rub it in?” he asked sourly.

Draco smiled. “Every chance I get.”

Weasley tossed his paper on the ottoman and turned toward the kitchen. “Hermione,” he shouted. “Your bloody partner is here.”

“Draco’s here?” she called back. Draco wondered if everyone in the family shouted. He didn’t think he’d ever heard his mother raise her voice. But then, her soft voice was more dangerous than any shout.

“Draco’s here?” Another voice called, and Draco just had to time to reflect that yes, they did all shout, when a slender young woman with fiery red curls bounded out of the kitchen, a delighted smile on her pretty face. She went up on her toes and threw her arms around Draco’s neck. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you, too, love.” He squeezed her before holding her at arm's length. “How’s my favorite graduate student?”

“She made the dean’s list again.” Hermione approached with a proud smile, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair was in a messy bun on her head and she had a smudge of flour on her cheek. She looked so completely different than ‘prosecutor Weasley’ that he could only smile.

“Of course she did,” Draco said. “She’s the smartest witch of her age.”

Rose colored prettily, and Weasley caught her hand. “Why don’t we let these two discuss… whatever it is he came over for, and I can help you in the kitchen.” He gestured meaningfully with his head, and Rose caught on instantly. 

“Oh, of course. We can get those cookies in the oven.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Rose,” Hermione said. “I’ll finish them up in a few minutes.”

“It’s fine, Mom.” She bussed her mother on the cheek as she passed. “I like to help. It was good to see you, Draco.”

“You too, my dear. I’m sure I’ll see you again before you go back to school.”

She gave him another bright smile and disappeared into the kitchen with her father. 

“Is everything all right?” Hermione asked, pushing at a curl that drooped over her brow.

Suddenly Draco felt foolish for imposing on her and interrupting her family time on a Saturday morning, almost as foolish as he’d felt lying awake half the night, fretting. 

“It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have imposed when you’re so obviously busy.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s no imposition.” She gestured toward a chair and sat on the ottoman where Weasley’s paper still lay. It crunched under her, and she made a face and pulled it out from under her hip. Draco saw the headline.

“NEW DETAILS IN AUROR POTTER SCANDAL,” was blazoned across the top. “MINISTER FORCES POTTER TO RESIGN.” 

Seeing it steeled Draco’s resolve. “I know it’s none of my business, and anything you know would probably have been told to you in confidence, but –“ he took a deep breath, “—did Snodgrass actually force Potter to resign?”

Hermione carefully set the paper aside. “No,” she answered at length. Her eyes came up and caught Draco’s. “May I ask why you care? I thought we weren’t to discuss Harry.”

“Well, we already did away with that rule earlier in the week. And there is so much gossip flying…” He smoothed his pant seams nervously. “You know me. I like to be ahead of the tattle.”

She angled her head to one side. “I do know you. And I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard you engage in idle gossip in the five years we’ve been partnered.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you had a vested interest in the answer.”

Draco frowned. “How could I possibly have a vested interest in the answer?”

Hermione’s expression was mild, but her eyes were as sharp as always. “Why don’t you tell me.”

Suddenly unable to sit still under her keen regard, Draco stood and moved to one of the large windows that looked out on the country lane in front of their home. There was so much more snow here than they had in Wiltshire, by several inches. 

“When did the snow start to pile up?”

“On and off all week,” she answered near his elbow. He hadn’t even heard her stand, and she was right beside him. “Draco.” She caught his arm and squeezed, and he looked down at her. “You know, when we first started working together and you told me Harry was a topic that was off limits, I assumed it was because you still felt about him the way you had when we’d been at school. But now –“ shook her head, “—I find myself wondering…”

Draco’s mouth went dry. “Wondering what?”

She stared up into his face. “Wondering if this isn’t a conversation that is going to need tea.”

He closed his eyes, then nodded. “Perhaps so.”

She squeezed his arm. “I’ll be right back, then we can go into my office. It will be more private that way.”

Draco watched her go, then turned back to look out the window. He supposed it was time he confided in her. Well past time, probably.

Their home really was nicely situated, he thought, studying the scene. There was the lane that curved along the edge of a park. In the spring and summer the trees that met above were thick with verdant green leaves, but now the bare branches were frosted with snow. A park bench was shrouded in white, and the old fashioned light poles with the square lantern tops merely needed large red bows to be Christmas card worthy. There was a man walking down the lane, and Draco thought he was a hearty soul, to be braving the cold without a hat on his dark hair. And then the set of the broad shoulders and the familiar, strong stride registered, and Draco took a half step back from the window, goose flesh lifting on his nape. 

Harry Potter was heading up the lane, and if he didn’t head for the Floo right then there was going to be a very uncomfortable meeting in Potter’s best friend's drawing room.


	6. Unsteady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

  


Unsteady 

Harry hunched his shoulders as he trudged through the snow, approaching his best friend’s elegant country home. They’d done very well for themselves, and he was as proud of their home as they were. He knew they’d want to know what had happened with Snodgrass, and but for a terse ‘I’m not sacked. I’ll tell you about the rest later’ to Ron as he left the Ministry the day before, all they had to go on was the _Daily Prophet_. Harry didn’t read the Prophet any longer, but he could imagine the day’s headlines. Of all the people in the world, he knew Ron and Hermione deserved to hear the truth from him, not through the mouthpiece of Rita Fucking Skeeter.

Though furious when he’d left the Ministry, his temper had mellowed as the evening had deepened into night and he’d gone over the day’s events, attempting to remove his ego from the equation. He recalled Snodgrass’s questions. Did he remember what happened with the Swanson boy? No, not really. He remembered seeing the Death Eater mask, and he remembered Ron slamming him into a wall. But actually putting his hands around the boy’s throat? No, he didn’t remember it. And the rest; the renewed nightmares, the trouble falling asleep, the loss of appetite. Add to that his short temper and worsening ability to haul himself out of depression, something he hadn’t discussed with anyone, and he feared maybe the Minister was right. Maybe Hermione was right. Or maybe he was just finally cracking up. People had predicted it for years, after all.

The walk from the Apparition point had seemed like a good idea at the time. He chose not to Floo because he still got woozy and that was the last thing he needed. But he was damned cold by the time he was stomping wet snow from his boots on the front stoop, and he rang their bell and waited. He was surprised when Hermione opened the door holding a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.

“Either you already have company,” he said wryly, “or you’ve become something of a psychic recently.”

She glanced quickly into her drawing room. “Draco was here,” she said. “But he seems to have gone.”

“No doubt saw me coming up the lane,” Harry said, aiming to keep his tone dry. Why, after all these years, it should cause an ache in the middle of his chest, Harry couldn’t say. “Probably decided the better part of valour was retreat.”

Hermione stepped back, allowing him to pass her into the entryway. “I do wish the two of you could act like adults. He’s my friend, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry sat on the bench inside the door and pulled off his wet boots. He placed them side by side near the wall. “I’d have come back later.”

“No, I do want to hear what happened yesterday. I can Floo Draco later. Come on, someone should drink this tea.” She led the way into the front drawing room. “Ron, Harry’s here,” she shouted toward the kitchen.

“Uncle Harry!”

Harry turned in time to find himself with his arms full of Rose Weasley. She smelled of flowers and her grip around his neck was almost choking.

“Hey, Rosie,” he said, squeezing her back. “Welcome home.”

“It’s so good to see you,” Rose said brightly. She leaned back and looked up into his eyes. “Are you all right? You look tired.”

“I’m okay, sweetheart.”

“Rose, would you go and fetch your Dad, please, and tell him Harry’s here? Then maybe you could finish up those biscuits for me.” Hermione gestured toward the kitchen with her head as she set the tea tray on a low table in front of the sofa.

“Sure, Mum.” She pulled Harry’s head down and kissed him on the cheek, then went out of the room. They heard her calling for her dad as she went through the kitchen.

“Subtle, Hermione,” Harry said, settling on the sofa. “What, maybe we should give Rosie a few days before she finds out Uncle Harry is having a nervous breakdown?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she replied crossly. “You aren’t having a nervous breakdown. And like I could hide anything from Rose.”

Harry felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. That was the God’s honest truth.

Hermione handed Harry a tea cup, and while it felt warm against his palm he’d have preferred coffee. But he took a sip, and the flavor of Earl Grey with sugar and milk spread like a warm blanket over his tongue. He closed his eyes. Instantly he was transported back twenty three years, to a breakfast room made dim because of the dirty windows, sitting at a scared table in his boxers and nothing else, sharing soft smiles and Earl Grey tea. It had been that long since he’d had a cup of tea fixed this way, and a wave of melancholy so deep it was almost crippling washed over him. His eyes ached and ordinarily he’d have been afraid to open them. But he was so tired. So tired of hiding. So tired of…everything.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder and another took the tea cup from his trembling hand. “Harry.” Her voice was gentle. When he opened his eyes and looked at her hesitantly, she was leaning close, her eyes concerned. “Sweetheart, what is it. He didn’t actually sack you, did he?”

A laugh that sounded anything but amused came from Harry’s mouth, and it almost hurt. “No, he didn’t sack me.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

He shook his head, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. How was he to explain that the flavor of a cup of tea had him nearly bursting into tears? That the reason he didn’t drink tea was because the memories hurt?

“Can’t a man have a few private moments in his own loo without someone being sent to fetch him? For Merlin’s sakes, Hermione. Oh… Harry. When did you get here? Did you run Malfoy off?”

Harry shook his head and lurched to his feet. “I should have Floo’d first,” he said, his voice strained. He’d just been there, right in the same room. In fact, Harry felt he could smell his cologne and it made his throat feel tight. Oh, God. He was losing it. “I have to go.”

“Harry!” Hermione caught his arm.

“Don’t be daft, Harry,” Ron said, frowning. “If you being here made the ferret scarper away…”

“Ronald,” Hermione scolded.

Harry felt anger replace his melancholy, so fast it was dizzying.

“Don’t call him that.”

He and Hermione said the words at the same time but Harry snarled them, and both Ron and Hermione stared at him in consternation.

“Harry,” Ron sputtered. “What the bloody hell?”

“Don’t call him names,” Harry repeated, taking a menacing step toward Ron. “We shouldn’t have called him names in school. You have no idea what he was going through at home, what his father was making him do, what Voldemort was making him do. You have no fucking clue! And I almost killed him,” Harry’s voice broke. “I almost fucking killed him.”

By the end of that, Ron and Hermione were both looking at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. Harry backed away from them in horror until he was leaning against the wall. He clenched his eyes closed. Tremors moved through his body and he was powerless to stop them. Wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown, eh? He was about to make a liar out of Hermione. He could feel it, bearing down on him.

“Harry,” Hermione said again, her voice full of entreaty.

“What the fuck, mate,” Ron muttered.

Harry thought if he could Apparate right then without splinching himself he’d be gone, but he knew he couldn’t. His knees felt weak and he let them bend, curling over them, wishing he could just disappear. He fisted his hands near his face and hid behind them.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but he heard a whispered murmur and then slow, measured footsteps approached. Someone stopped nearby and he heard knees pop softly as they crouched in front of him. He prepared himself for Hermione’s hand.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he whispered. “As soon as I feel steadier, I’ll Apparate home. I just can’t right now.”

“You fucking drama queen,” an achingly familiar yet unsteady voice murmured.

The voice was a shock, and Harry’s eyes shot open. All he could see, filling his line of vision, was a pair of pale grey eyes.

“Draco,” Harry said, his throat thick.

“Give the man a cookie.”

Harry reached out, his hand trembling. He wasn’t sure Malfoy was even actually there.

He wasn’t convinced until a trembling hand closed around his, and squeezed.


	7. Lights in the Twilight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

Lights in the Twilight

Draco curled his other hand over the top of Harry’s, cradling Harry’s palm between both of his. Harry was shaking, just like he’d been the last time Draco had touched him. His green eyes looked bloodshot and tired, and it was all Draco could do to keep tears from his eyes.

“You’re real,” Harry whispered. “I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m real,” Draco whispered back. “And I’ve got you.” 

“What the fuck, Malfoy,” Ron said from behind him. “What were you doing? Lurking in the office?”

“Ronald!” Hermione scolded. Draco felt her come up beside him. “Harry, sweetheart, are you all right?”

Harry pulled his eyes from Draco’s and looked up at her. Just looked at her for so long it became awkward, and Draco began to wonder if he was so far under he didn’t even recognize her. Finally, he sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head.

“No,” he said softly. “No, I’m not. And I don’t think I have been for a long time.”

“Let’s get you up, shall we?” Draco grimaced. “I’m entirely too old to be crouching anywhere. You Auror’s may be used to this kind of thing. I, however, am not.”

Harry sent him a fleeting smile, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet when Draco stood. Hermione reached out, taking hold of Harry’s wrist, and the three of them stood there, joined at the hands.

Harry didn’t even attempt to pull his hand free from Draco’s grip. In fact, he curled his fingers around Draco’s palm and squeezed. The hand, broad of palm with strong, blunt tipped fingers felt so right in his hands. Draco could even feel the ridge of calluses on Harry’s right index finger, right where it curled around his wand. He remembered tracing that callus, smaller over twenty years ago, as Harry slept. He’d loved the man’s hands, and that had never changed. 

“What can we do, Harry?” Hermione said, her voice unsteady. “How can we help?”

Harry took a deep breath. “The Minister gave me a card today.” He released Draco’s hands and rubbed his palms on his thighs self-consciously. Draco immediately felt the loss, but he took a step back, crossing his arms. 

“A card?”

Harry looked at him. “For a mind healer.”

“Who?” Draco asked.

“His name is Fairweather. Delius Fairweather.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “He’s the best.” He met Harry’s gaze again. “I would know.”

Harry searched his face. “You…”

Draco nodded again. “I was able to have my post war breakdown without the media attention, but yes…as you alluded to earlier, I’ve had my issues.”

Their eyes held, a wealth of understanding flowing between them. “Will you go with me?” Harry asked.

Draco blinked. “To see the mind healer?” Harry nodded. “Potter, that’s a very personal thing…”

“Please.”

His eyes were entreating, and Draco had never been able to tell him no. It was part of the reason they’d agreed to stay away from one another. Because they’d been unable to tell one another no. Draco sighed. 

“Yes.”

Potter sighed, shoulders that had been tensely held relaxing. The change was dramatic. “Thank you.” Almost immediately, he began to look around. When he found his shoes, he picked them up and sat on the bottom tread of the staircase, shoving his feet into them.

“Harry,” Hermione said, sounding startled. “Are you leaving? You just got here.”

He looked up at her as he yanked his laces and efficiently tied them. “And I think I proved I’m not fit company for anyone right now.” He stood, shaking down his pant legs over the tops of his boots. He caught Hermione’s hand in his for a moment. “Let me get myself sorted, love,” he murmured. “Then I’ll be back. I promise.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she went up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she said against his ear. “Don’t forget that.”

Potter wrapped his arms around her and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. “I won’t. Ever. And I love you, too.”

He released her as she sniffed and wiped at her eyes, and held his hand out to a befuddled Ron. 

“I have no idea what the fuck is going on,” Ron muttered, but he shook Harry’s hand. “But you know I’ve got your back, whatever happens.”

Potter sent him a small smile. “I know you do, and you have no idea what that means to me.”

When Potter turned to Draco and held out his hand, Draco felt compelled to lift his arm and again clasp Potter’s hand in his. 

“I’ll let you know when.”

Draco nodded. “And Merlin help me, I’ll be there. I’ve no idea why, but I will.”

Harry gave him a fleeting smile. “I’ll see you all soon.”

With that he opened the door and walked out into the twilight.

Draco moved into the drawing room to watch him through the front windows. 

“Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on around here?” Ron growled as he followed him. “First my best friend starts to go mental right in front of me, then he’s holding hands with bloody Malfoy! What the hell, Hermione.”

“Why me? I know as much as you do, Ronald,” she said tartly. 

Draco ignored him. Instead, he watched the man with the black hair walk through the snow in the twilight. He knew he owed his hosts an explanation for slipping into the office instead of going home through the Floo. His only plan had been to shamelessly eavesdrop, to find out what had happened to Potter at the Ministry. He didn’t even have an excuse, nor had he planned for a dignified escape. He hadn’t been thinking at all. Which had always been his problem with Potter. 

As he watched, Potter paused on the lane and looked back to the house. Draco knew he could see him, but neither of them acknowledged it in any way. Instead, Potter pulled his wand from his sleeve, and turned back toward the park. With a few casual motions of his wand, he lit the tree from the bottom to the top in colored lights, shining brilliantly in the blue twilight. When they were twinkling merrily, he looked back at the house, then disappeared with a soft pop. And Draco knew, whatever had passed between them, the gesture was for him. That brilliantly shining tree was for him.

“All right, Draco,” Hermione said. He could see her reflection in the window, standing at his shoulder. “I think you owe us an explanation.”

“Probably,” he agreed, unable to tear his eyes from the tree. 

“And what exactly was that with Harry?” Ron grumbled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think… something I can’t think because… I just can’t. Why were you… why was he… what the fuck…”

“Breathe, Weasley,” Draco said dryly. “Your head is going to explode.”

Weasley huffed and stomped away, but Hermione wasn’t as easily dissuaded. 

“There is a story there,” she insisted. “Isn’t there?”

Draco continued to look at the tree, shining in the near darkness. Oh, yes. There was a story there. His eyes began to sting and the brilliant lights blurred.

“It’s not mine to tell,” he said, his throat tight. “You’ll have to ask him.”


	8. The Candle Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

THE CANDLE FLAME 

Harry made his way down Diagon Alley, ignoring the stares and the whispers as he passed. He was used to it. And even dressed in jeans and a jumper, covered with his heavy black pea coat, the messy hair that was one big cowlick was distinctive enough. He’d tried to tame it his entire adult life with no success. Now he simply had it cut short and dealt with it, but that meant the jagged scar on his forehead was clearly in view. He’d hoped it would fade as he got older, and it had, but the whiter it got the more obvious it was against his tawny skin. Again, he’d just learned to deal with it.

As he approached the address on the card, he began to scan the crowd in front of him. He’d sent Draco an owl, telling him the time of his appointment, but there had been no response. Not seeing the slender man with the light hair, Harry’s nervousness began to grow. He wasn’t sure he could face this by himself. He’d been through a lot in his life; he wasn’t certain he could let someone else into his mind to stir things up. Not without backup. Not without Draco.

He knew Hermione and Ron didn’t understand. They’d exchanged owls after he left their home, and while Hermione’s questions had been careful, Harry could read between the lines. After years and years of both Harry and Draco making it very clear they wouldn’t discuss the other, and everyone assuming it was because they still couldn’t stand one another, that scene in Ron and Hermione’s entryway had made it pretty clear there was more to the story than anyone knew. And there was. A lot more. 

He arrived at the address on the card, and his knees went weak when he realized the man standing against the wall out front, wearing a dark knit cap covering his very distinctive hair and smirking at him, was Draco.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Harry said, rubbing one hand nervously through his hair. Draco watched him mildly.

“I said I would,” he said. “And that doesn’t help it look any better, you know. Now it rather resembles the feathers on the top of a rooster’s head.”

Harry dropped his hand and gave Draco a wry glance.

“Are you ready for this?” Draco asked, pushing away from the wall. 

Harry shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Well, that’s definitive.” Draco softened his words with a slight smile. “Well, come on, then. Let’s not keep Delius waiting.” Draco reached out and pulled the door open, then followed Harry through.

Harry was relieved it was a Healer’s practice with several different specialties all in one building. He could imagine what Skeeter would make of him seeing a mind healer, and he didn’t kid himself into believing no one had followed him. Someone was almost always following him unless he caught them at it. 

There were several doors leading off of a main hallway, and Draco walked past him, leading the way to the end of the hall. Harry caught a whiff of his cologne as he passed, and the scent made him weak in the knees. No one else wore that fragrance; Draco told him it had been made especially for him in Paris on his sixteenth birthday, the formula a well-guarded secret. But he’d told Harry what was in it: hints of cedar and sandalwood, with top notes of citrus and vetiver. Harry hadn’t known what any of it meant, he’d only known that just the smell of it had made him hard. Now it made him melancholy. Irritated at himself, Harry squared his shoulders and followed Draco. 

Draco opened the door and waited, his eyes on Harry’s. Determined not to embarrass himself, Harry stepped into the small, sparse waiting room. There was a counter to the right with a middle aged witch seated behind it, and she looked up mildly as Harry approached. 

“I have an appointment for three o’clock?” Harry said, sticking his hands into his coat pockets. 

“Name, please?”

Harry blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked for his name, like she didn’t know him. 

“Potter, you raging harpy,” Draco provided dryly. He saw the witch’s lips twitch. 

“Nice to see you again, Draco,” she said with a smile. “I’ve so missed our conversations.”

“I’m sure. With all of the head cases who come through here, I’m certain most of them aren’t witty conversationalists.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She smiled. “There was one who thought he was Godric Gryffindor. He was fascinating.”

Draco made a gagging sound, and she laughed. 

“You can go right in, Mr. Potter.” She gestured toward a door in the back wall. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” He looked over at Draco, who made an exaggerated bow, gesturing toward the door. Harry rolled his eyes but crossed to it. He did wait to make sure Draco was following him. 

“Relax, Potter,” he said under his breath. “I won’t desert you.”

Harry took a deep breath and opened the door.

The inner office was surprisingly large, with a colorful Oriental rug on the floor and three walls with floor to ceiling books. Windows lined the fourth wall, a view of a snowy countryside filling them, so realistic that snowflakes dipped dizzily from a slate grey sky and birds flew to settle next to a frozen pond. There were three comfortable looking chairs and an ottoman grouped in one corner, and there was a large desk in another, a man seated behind it. His head was bowed over a book, the index finger of one hand pressing into his lower lip as he read. He was younger than Harry had expected, even though he had reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His hair was sandy blond and slightly long over his forehead, and when he looked up as Harry approached, his eyes were deep blue. He took off the glasses and rose, offering his hand.

“Mr. Potter, it’s a pleasure.” 

Harry shook his hand, absolutely positive he wasn’t a good enough liar to say it was a pleasure for him, too. Fairweather’s eyes looked over Harry’s shoulder, and his smile widened. “Draco!” He offered his hand again.

“Delius,” Draco replied with obvious fondness. 

“How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

Fairweather looked between the two men. “Are you…here for Mr. Potter’s appointment?”

“Harry asked me if I’d come.”

Fairweather nodded sagely. He didn’t ask any further questions, just gave that one enigmatic nod. Harry didn’t have time to wonder about it, as Fairweather was directing he and Draco to the chairs in the opposite corner. They were every bit as comfortable as they looked. Harry unbuttoned his coat and settled into the encompassing softness.

“Before we begin I feel there are a few things I should explain,” Fairweather began as he settled next to Harry and casually crossed his long legs beneath his dark purple robes. Draco took the chair on Harry’s other side, pulling the hat from his head, smoothing the silvery blond strands that clung to the knit fabric. “There seem to be some misconceptions about mind healing. First let me assure you I won’t be able to see anything you don’t want to show me.”

Harry must have looked skeptical, because Fairweather smiled. “I promise you, Harry. I won’t be sifting through your mind, looking for juicy tidbits to sell to the newspaper.”

He touched on something Harry really feared, but hearing him say it aloud made it sound really silly. He grimaced.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Fairweather said quickly. “In your position, I think I’d be afraid of the same thing. I can only promise you that isn’t how I work.”

“How do you work?” Harry asked. “I have no idea what we’re going to be doing.”

Fairweather leaned forward earnestly. “First, tell me why Minister Snodgrass sent you to me. What are your symptoms?”

“I…” Harry paused, rubbing his lips. His mouth felt dry as dust. “I attacked a suspect that was being held at the DMLE. A kid, really.”

Fairweather nodded as if he heard that sort of thing every day. “And what had this suspect done?”

“He was terrorizing an elderly neighbor. Apparently she had tattled to his father, telling him the boy was sneaking out every night. To get back at her, he donned black robes and a Death Eater mask and turned up in her yard. The woman’s husband and two sons had been killed by Death Eater’s during the war.”

“Well, that’s certainly ugly,” Fairweather said with distaste. “Is that why you attacked him?”

The question surprised Harry, and he had to think about it. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Honestly, I remember seeing the mask, but I don’t remember attacking the boy at all.”

The healer nodded slowly. “All right. Let me ask you another question. How do you sleep? Is it restful?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you have nightmares?”

Harry attempted to dampen his lips with his tongue, but his mouth was so dry it didn’t help. He nodded curtly.

“And how is your appetite?”

He glanced at Draco and found him watching, his face impassive but his eyes knowing. 

“I don’t really have one,” Harry answered, his eyes still linked with Draco’s. “I’m not hungry, ever.”

Fairweather nodded, and Harry turned back to him. 

“I have a pretty good idea where to start, Harry. I’d like to try something if you’re agreeable.”

Harry shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

Fairweather made a gesture with his hand, and a pale wand slid into his palm. He waved it, and several candles lifted from the book shelves, flying gracefully toward them, pausing to float in front of them. The one nearest to Harry was white, and Fairweather waved his wand again to light it. The flame burned high and bright. The healer made another gesture and the other candles lit as well, but the flames were different colors; red and blue and yellow and green, floating gracefully in the air. The movement was oddly soothing as Harry watched them.

“What I’d like for you to do,” Fairweather said softly, “is to look at only the white flame. Concentrate on that one candle. Let the others become background. As you stare into the flame, I want you to listen to my voice. But more important than my words is the white candles flame.”

Harry stared into the light and tried to consciously let go of the tension in his body. It took what felt like a long time, but finally he entered an odd, floating feeling and he heard a low rushing noise in his ears. He began to feel weird, weightless. As his body drifted there was a moment of fear and he was able to thrust out his right hand. After a second he felt fingers gently stroke his palm. The gesture centered him, and he stared into the white flame.


	9. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

Memories

Draco watched Harry carefully, watched his breathing slow and even out, watched his body relax. Only when he was lying heavily in the chair, his legs relaxed, his hands and arms limp, was it obvious how very stiffly he’d been holding himself before. Draco wondered if that rigid control was a function of his job, or of the things that had gone on in his personal life. Either way, Draco didn’t think he’d seen Harry this loose in over twenty years. And he’d watched him, as much as he dared.

He’d told Harry being an Auror would get him killed. They had argued about it, viciously. Harry had gone to Auror training anyway. It was what he knew, he’d told Draco. What he was good at; finding the bad guys. Once Draco was working in the prosecutor’s office, he’d known how many times Harry was sent out on a raid, and he’d been a nervous wreck until the teams were back and everyone was accounted for. He’d known how many times he was sent to St. Mungo’s. Those were the hardest, the ones that tested his resolve. They had sworn to one another that once they were over, no one would ever know, but not going to check on Harry when he’d been in hospital had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. They’d been so young and stupid. Once they were over: Draco shook his head. Hell, they would never be over. Never.

“Just let your mind drift, Harry,” Delius was saying in his soft, sing song voice. “Just be at peace, and slowly search your memories. Find a happy memory, a recollection that brings you joy.”

Draco watched Harry’s face. It looked relaxed, almost as if he was asleep, but his eyes moved behind his eyelids. A soft smile curled the full lips, and the expression hit Draco like a fist in the gut. He’d seen that smile in the pale light of dawn, when Harry had wakened to find him watching him sleep.

“What’re you doing?” he’d asked, face still holding that soft, slightly fuzzy smile.

“Nothing,” Draco had whispered back, reaching over to push at the wayward fringe. “Just looking.”

Draco’s recollections were interrupted by Delius’s voice.

“Have you found a happy memory, Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“It’s my first Christmas after I left the Dursley’s,” he said, his deep voice soft. “I have presents. I’d never had a present before.”

“That must have been a wonderful thing for you,” Delius said. Harry nodded.

“It was. I couldn’t believe it. Even Ron’s Mom made me a Weasley jumper. It was green, and it had a big ‘H’ on the front.” His soft smile widened. “It was so ugly, but I loved it.”

Draco had threatened to burn it more than once, but of course he wouldn’t. He knew what the lumpy jumper represented to Harry; family, belonging. He’d heard the stories, lying in bed in the deep of the night. He’d been horrified that anyone would treat a child the way those hideous relatives had treated Harry. He supposed Dumbledore left him there so he wouldn’t turn into some entitled, spoiled brat. Had he been raised by any wizard family, he’d have been ‘the chosen one’ for his whole bloody life. That wouldn’t have been much of a way to raise the boy who would eventually have to come up against Voldemort. Draco knew that only too well; he certainly hadn’t been able to tell the monster, or his father, no. In his mind they had become one and the same.

“Let’s move on from that memory, Harry,” Delius said gently. “Do you feel able to move on to one that isn’t happy?”

Harry shifted restlessly in the chair. “I don’t want to.”

“I know. And I understand. But if we’re going to be able to help you, it’s necessary.” 

Harry made a face, but he settled back into the chair.

“Thank you, Harry. Let’s move forward from that memory. Let’s move forward in your life, past your twelfth year, your thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth…”

With each year Delius took Harry forward, his body grew more and more tense, his hands moved, fisting then relaxing, over and over again. Draco didn’t dare touch him now, but Gods, he wanted to.

“You’re sixteen, Harry, and there are many hard things you’re being forced face. Tell me just one, just the first one that comes to your mind.”

For several seconds, Harry didn’t speak. Just shook his head, his lips pressed tight together.

“It’s all right,” Delius assured him. “You’re safe. The memories cannot hurt you.”

“Not safe,” Harry muttered. “Never safe. Not at home, not at school. Nowhere is safe, not anymore.”

Draco closed his eyes against a rush of pain. Gods, he wished they didn’t have to keep reliving those days. Why couldn’t they just be done, be gone?

“Tell me just one memory, Harry,” Delius coaxed, “just one, and we can banish it for good. Just one.”

Harry exhaled heavily. “We’re at King’s Cross. It’s the first day of school, and they’re all standing in lines, clutching their Platform nine and three quarters tickets. There aren’t as many this year, or as many parents. They all know he’s back, and that Snape is the new Headmaster.”

Draco’s eyes shot open and he stared at Harry in confusion. Harry hadn’t been at King’s Cross that day; he’d been off camping somewhere with Hermione and Ron. So what was this?

“The little ones are so scared, you can see it in their eyes. And the others love it; anyone’s fear, the parents, the little kids. To inspire fear is what they live for.”

“Who are the others, Harry?” Delius asked.

Harry’s head moved restlessly in denial. He pursed his lips tightly closed and shook his head.

“It’s all right, you can tell me. They can’t hurt you anymore. We can make it so they hold no further power over you. But I need for you to tell me first. Can you do that? Can you tell me?”

Harry flinched, then he nodded. 

“Good, Harry. So tell me, who are they others?”

Harry swallowed heavily, still clearly not wanting to say anything. Finally, with what appeared like a Herculean effort, he forced himself to speak. 

“MacNair,” he finally managed, his lips twisting with distaste. “And the Carrows. And they walk through the lines, staring at the kids. A little one is crying, and they love it, the bastards. They’re laughing. They’ve taken what should be the most exciting day in these little kids lives, and they’ve destroyed it. Gods, I hate them. I hate this. And yet I stand here, a fucking coward, doing what they tell me because I’m afraid. I’m fucking afraid, and I hate it!”

Draco stared at Harry in horror. What the hell? Delius glanced over at him, understanding in his eyes because he recognized what Draco was just beginning to understand. 

That memory wasn’t Harry’s.

It was his.


	10. When in Doubt, Ask Your Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

**When in Doubt, Ask Your Mother**

When Harry walked out of Delius Fairweather’s office into the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, he felt a little as if someone had hollowed out his head with an ice cream scoop. He paused to lean against the wall, his eyes closed, his stomach turning. Almost immediately, he felt a hand beneath his elbow.

“Are you up to Apparition?” He felt Draco ask near his ear. Harry laughed raggedly.

“Oh, sure,” he said with a grimace. “Why not?”

“Good. Hold on.” Draco wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry curled his fingers into Draco’s coat, clenching his eyes closed. His forehead ended up pressed against Draco’s throat, and once again the fragrance he would always associate with Draco filled his head. It eased his headache. He still stumbled on landing, and Draco tightened his arm around him. 

“Easy,” he murmured.

“Harry!”

Harry heard Hermione’s startled voice, and lifted his head, blinking against the suddenly bright lights. 

“He needs tea, Hermione,” he heard Draco say. “And as soon as his stomach can bear it, something to eat. I thought you could take him from the Floo here to your house. He’s a bit unsteady. I thought this better than letting him stumble around Diagon Alley. And he probably shouldn’t be alone for several hours.”

“Is he all right? Are you all right, Harry?”

He swallowed, then nodded weakly, his eyes finding Draco. “You’re leaving, then?”

Draco frowned, looking troubled. “I need to meet up with my mother,” he said.

“But you’ll come back with me tomorrow,” Harry persisted, even though he felt very much as if someone didn’t put him in a chair soon he was going to fall on his ass. As if he’d read his mind, Draco pulled his own desk chair over, then caught Harry’s arms and lowered him into it.

“Tomorrow?” Hermione asked. She was now in Harry’s line of vision, and she eyed him worriedly. “Isn’t that too soon, if this is the effect it has?”

“It’s better to get it over with as quickly as possible,” Draco said. “He’ll feel better after something to eat and some sleep.” He looked at Hermione, his face stern. “And don’t begin to pepper him with questions, Hermione. I know you’re curious about a number of things, but he’s too vulnerable right now.” 

“I would never do anything to hurt him,” Hermione protested, looking stung. Draco’s expression softened. 

“I know that, love. But your natural curiosity, which we both know is almost unquenchable, has to be driving you a bit mad right now.”

She looked faintly appeased. “I won’t pester him, and I’ll make sure Ron doesn’t either.” She pinned Draco with a look. “But you, sir, owe me some answers.”

Draco nodded curtly. “Fair enough,” he said softly. “And I really do have to go now.” He turned back to Harry, crouching so he was just slightly below eye level. He rested his hand gently on Harry’s knee.

“Tonight you really do need to take it easy,” he murmured. “The night of my first session I was sick as a dog.”

Harry laughed weakly. “Something to look forward to, then.”

Draco smiled and squeezed his knee. “I’ll meet you outside Delius’s office tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” 

Draco stood and approached the fireplace, starting a small fire with his wand and a softly muttered _Incendio_. He took a handful of Floo powder from a small pot on the hearth, then turned to look at Harry.

“Please don’t overdo.”

Harry offered a weak smile. “Hermione won’t let me.”

Draco nodded. “Good.”

He tossed the Floo powder on the flames, and said, “Lupin-Tonks Memorial Institute”, then stepped through the green fire and was gone. 

Hermione rested her hand briefly on Harry’s shoulder. “Let me get you something to eat.”

Harry nodded, resting his forehead on his palm.

ooo000ooo

The Lupin-Tonks Memorial Institute was something his mother and Aunt had been instrumental in starting right after the war. It had begun as a bombed out business front on Diagon Alley and a run-down barn near the Manor. Now it was a clean and efficiently run non-profit and a beautiful and modern home for orphans and foster children that was every bit as impressive as Lucius Malfoy’s ancestral home. Draco wasn’t sure of the exact numbers, but currently there were fifty kids in full time residence, at least half of them squibs who had been tossed aside by their pure-blood families. Draco felt a special affinity for those children; he had no delusions about what his own father would have done had he been born a squib.

He stepped through the Floo in the enormous river rock fireplace in the Institutes main room, pausing for a moment to take in the festive garland, wreath and candles on the chimney’s face, then the towering fir tree beside it. His mother and Aunt had outdone themselves this year. He also saw the piles of gifts, and Narcissa and Andromeda right in the middle of them, seated on the floor, surrounded by rolls of paper and ribbon on one side, and unwrapped toys on the other. They were giggling as he appeared, and he took in the sight with pleasure.

“Well, you’ve been industrious,” he said with a smile. They looked up at him, and his mother’s face lit up with a smile. 

“Darling!” she wiggled her fingers at him, and he eyed the mugs near them with suspicion.

“Have you ladies been in the eggnog?” he asked, bending over to see what was in his mother’s cup.

She snatched it up protectively. “Everyone is entitled to a seasonal beverage, Draco,” she said austerely, then ruined the effect by giggling. He shot his aunt a look.

“Andi, I’m beginning to think you’re a bad influence.”

Andromeda sniffed and tossed her heavy silver hair over her shoulder. She was still a beautiful woman, something which Bellatrix might also had been if madness and cruelty hadn’t stolen her looks. The remaining sisters were the better for her absence. 

“I’m a wonderful influence,” Andi said, clearly trying to swallow a smile. “Where else would your mother have learned to actually _wrap her own gifts_ if not from me?”

“I knew how to wrap gifts,” Narcissa sniffed. 

“Ordering your house elves to do it doesn’t count.”

Narcissa set her mug aside and waved her wand, and a length of paper wrapped itself around a box containing a baby doll. Another wave and bright red ribbon snaked around the package and tied itself into a lovely bow. “I always picked out the paper,” she said. Andi laughed, and it rang delightfully. Draco couldn’t help it; he smiled.

“Oh, bully for you, Cissy. Picking out the paper is so labour intensive.”

“Oh, hush, you,” Narcissa said, levitating the freshly wrapped package to the pile under the tree.

Draco looked around the surprisingly quiet main room. “Where are all of the kids?”

“Ted and James and Albus Potter have them out flying,” Andi answered. Potter’s boys, Draco thought. There was irony for you. “It’s a good day for it.” 

Draco agreed; the idea of spending an afternoon on a broom sounded pretty delightful. He didn’t fly much anymore.

Draco nodded. “What about the non-magical ones?”

“They spell starter brooms for them. No reason they should miss out on the fun.” Andi levitated her package into place beside her sister’s. “And it gives us a chance to finish up the decorating and wrap the children’s presents. 

“Here, Draco,” Narcissa said, patting the floor beside her, “you can help us.”

“Actually, Mother, I was hoping I might have a word.” 

Her smile faded a bit. “Are you all right? Is Scorpius all right?”

“We’re both fine,” he answered. “There’s just something I’d like to get your opinion on.”

She turned to her sister. In the unspoken way of siblings, Andi nodded and waved her hand. Narcissa rose gracefully to her feet, moving like someone decades younger than she was, and picked through wrapping paper to come to her son. 

“Would you like some eggnog?” she asked. He snorted.

“I think I’ll keep my wits about me, thank you. But a cup of tea would be welcome.”

She smiled and led the way through the drawing room, past the large dining room and into the industrial size but still homey kitchen. At least a dozen house elves worked at every surface, stirring pots or rolling out bread and frosting cookies, and the scents made Draco’s stomach growl. Loudly. Narcissa sent him a knowing smile.

“Tonky, could you please bring Master Draco and me some tea in the morning room, and perhaps some of those lovely ginger biscuits?”

“Right away, Miss Cissy,” an aged house elf answered, and Draco recognized him from the Manor. Many of the elves from their home had come to work with the kids at the Institute. Narcissa was absolutely right when she said so many servants was just silly for two people, and the kids needed them.

Draco followed her into a room filled with white wicker furniture and towering palm tree surrounded by flowering bushes. Weekend breakfasts were a casual thing at the Institute, and many of the older kids ate in this room. Narcissa indicated a chair with a thick cushion at a small round table, and Draco took one while she settled into another. 

“Now, tell me. What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Potter has begun seeing Delius Fairweather,” he said finally. “He started today, and he asked me to go with him.”

She nodded. “And of course, you did,” she said carefully. 

“He was understandably nervous,” Draco replied. “Having been through it, I thought I could be a calming influence.”

“No doubt,” she agreed. “It’s just usually an intensely… personal experience, is it not?”

Draco glanced away. “Yes. Although I’d reasoned there was little about him I didn’t know at this point.”

She crossed her hands in her lap. “You were very young, darling. A lifetime has passed since then. You’ve both been married, fathered children. He could be a completely different person. After all, you are.”

Draco had to acknowledge that her statement was at least partly true. He frowned.

She lay one of her hands gently on his arm. “Were his memories painful for you to see?”

“That isn’t it,” he said, covering her hand with his absently. “The memory Potter discussed with Delius today wasn’t his.” He stared into her light blue eyes. “It was mine.” 

She blinked. “Was it something you’d told him about, before?”

“That’s just it,” he said. “It wasn’t. I’d never told him about it.” 

Her fingers stiffened under his, and her eyes went very wide. 

“I just don’t understand,” he went on. “How could such a thing even be possible?”

She chewed daintily at the corner of her lower lip for a moment, her brow furrowed. 

“There’s something I should have told you long ago.” Draco felt a fissure of alarm. “But I’d thought it was just a rumor. At least, I’d hoped.” 

Draco leaned forward. “About Harry?”

She nodded somberly.


	11. Questions in Search of an Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**Questions in Search of an Answer**

Hermione held Harry’s arm as they side-along Floo’d into her drawing room. Their tree was now immaculately decorated, festive packages underneath. The Mantle had a beautiful green wreath hanging above, and there were fragrant candles lit. The house smelled like apples and cinnamon, and it was a homey scent.

Immediately, Hermione settled him in a comfortable arm chair and pulled an ottoman over in front of him, lifting his legs.

“Hermione, don’t fuss,” he said softly. Gods, he was so tired. What he really wanted was his bed, but he knew once Draco had said, ‘he shouldn’t be alone’, that was all Hermione heard. Now he’d probably end up spending the night in their spare bedroom. 

“Mum? Is Uncle Harry okay?”

Harry looked up to see Rosie standing in front of him, studying him. She had the same line between her brows as her mother did when she was worried, and he hated that he’d put it there.

“Rosie, I’m fine.”

“He had his first session with Healer Fairweather today,” Hermione said hurriedly, taking a knitted throw from the back of her sofa and spreading it over his legs.

“For gods sakes, I’m not an invalid,” he said, frowning. He felt heat filling his face, and knew he was blushing. He didn’t really mind if Rosie knew he was seeing a mind healer, but he didn’t want her thinking he was… weak, either. He’d been her hero once. The idea of losing that distinction in her eyes made his chest ache.

But instead of looking disappointed, her eyes brightened. She sat on the ottoman near his feet, leaning toward him. “Delius Fairweather?” she asked breathlessly.

“Uhm, yeah,” Harry answered, surprised. 

“Oh, he’s a genius,” Rose said, her eyes shining. “His work is on the cutting edge of his profession.” Harry had somehow forgotten Rose was a graduate student studying alternative Healing techniques, but it made him feel better to know she’d heard of Fairweather.

“I’ve read several of his papers on healing conditions of the mind,” she went on. “He’s an expert, particularly in dealing with PTSD.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “PTS…”

“PTSD,” Rose said. “It’s actually a Muggle term. It stands for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Is that what he’s treating you for, Uncle Harry?”

Harry frowned. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Well, what are your symptoms?”

“Rose, you’re not the mind healer,” Hermione said tightly. “Not yet, at least. And that’s a very personal question.”

A red stain spread across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Uncle Harry,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just so very interested in his work!”

“It’s all right, love,” Harry said. “Mostly, I don’t sleep well and I have no appetite. I’ve also had a few…blackout episodes. I don’t lose consciousness, I just do things I don’t remember. And that I can’t control.” That was the hardest to admit, that there were times when he couldn’t control his actions.

Rose nodded sagely. “Those are all textbook symptoms. And given what you’ve been through in your life, starting with your childhood and going right up through the end of the war, I’d be amazed if you didn’t have at least a mild case of PTSD. Do you mind if I ask you about your treatment?”

Hermione gave her daughter a quelling look.

“Rose, this was his first visit. And Harry needs to rest. Maybe you could make him some tea?”

She looked so disappointed Harry reached out and caught her hand. “Ask whatever you like, sweetheart. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to offer much. I really remember very little.”

“I give up,” Hermione muttered, her expression resigned. “I guess I’ll make tea.” She gently tugged one of Rose’s curls as she passed. “Don’t wear him out.” 

“I won’t, Mum.” 

Hermione left the room, and Rose turned her attention back to Harry. 

“So, did he hypnotize you?” she asked, launching right in.

Harry thought back to his time with Fairweather. He remembered the colored flames on some of the candles, and then the brilliant white flame. Just recalling it made Harry feel sleepy.

“He did, yeah. He used six or seven candles, all different colors, then this one brilliant white one. He told me to concentrate on the white one, but the colors in the background kept moving. It was …mesmerizing.”

Rose nodded. “He’s written that the technique works on even the most resistant subjects. Do you remember anything from when you were under?”

Harry shook his head. “Not really.” He rubbed the side of his forehead where the headache lingered. “I just remember King’s Cross. There were Death Eater’s there, terrorizing a bunch of little kids. But none of it is very clear.”

“That’s enough now, Rose.” Hermione settled a tray on a nearby end table and lifted a mug, bringing it to Harry. She softened her voice. “When he rubs his head like that, it means it hurts.” He curled his fingers into his palm and let his hand drop self-consciously. She gave him a soft smile as she handed him the tea. “I recognize the signs.”

He returned her smile, but he knew it was weak. 

“Uncle Harry, as your treatment progresses, may I ask questions?”

“Oh, sure sweetheart. Maybe I can arrange for you to meet him.”

“Really?” She clasped her hands under her chin, and she all but vibrated with excitement.

“Really.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” She jumped up and hugged him around the neck, and he winced. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but it also hurt. Still, he patted her on the back until she straightened.

“Mum, can I use the Floo in your office?” she asked, bouncing on her toes. “I want to talk to Ashley.”

“Lord it over him, you mean,” Hermione said with a wry smile. “But yes, you may use my Floo.”

She grinned and bounced out of the room, and Hermione lifted a cup from the tray and sat on the sofa across from Harry, pulling her legs beneath her. She’d lost her Prosecutors robes at some point, but her navy pencil skirt, white blouse and kitten heals looked sleekly professional.

“Ashley?” Harry asked, holding the mug between his palms. He hoped it was Earl Grey again. “Who names their son Ashley?”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Justin Finch-Fletchley. They’re taking the same graduate courses.”

Harry made a face. “Oh, shit. She doesn’t like him, does she?”

“She likes him fine. Just not the way you’re thinking.”

“Thank Merlin for that.” Harry took a sip of his tea, and the familiar, comforting flavor slipped over his tongue. 

“Mostly, she likes beating him. Her grades are far superior.”

Harry nodded. “That’s my girl.”

Hermione’s smile was soft. “She loves you, too.” She sat back, sipping her tea with an appreciative sigh. For a few minutes, there was only silence and the warmth from the fire and the taste of the tea. It reminded him of Draco’s stalwart presence at his side earlier in the day. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about that part much yet, but the fact he’d been there for Harry meant more than Draco would ever know. And he’d promised to come back with him. It made the idea of going less intimidating.

“Harry,” Hermione said after a few minutes. “May I ask you something?”

He sighed. “The bane of my existence,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “The curiosity of the Weasley women.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but she smiled. “You’re feeling better.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I am. I’m mostly just tired now. But ask your question.”

“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear what you were telling Rose, about the memory you discussed today with Fairweather.” He nodded, wondering where she was going with this. “You said that you recalled Death Eater’s being at Kings Cross, terrorizing a bunch of children.”

Harry nodded, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

“I remember Ginny telling me something once,” she went on, and Harry began to drift as he listened to her. “It was about an incident that happened at the beginning of her sixth year. She told me when they went to catch the train, there were Death Eaters on the platform, searching for Muggle borns. And that they seemed to particularly enjoy making the little ones cry. She was so angry, she cast a bat bogey at one of them.”

Harry grinned, imagining one of Voldemort’s followers with the flapping bogey’s inside their mask. His spitfire of an ex-wife would do precisely that.

“Only Neville pushing her behind a luggage trolley saved her from being in very big trouble.”

Harry’s grin widened. Honestly, Ginny had always belonged with Neville. It had just taken them twenty years to figure it out.

“He’s always been a great guy,” Harry murmured. 

“He has,” Hermione went on. “I just have one question, Harry. If what Fairweather is doing is pulling up your memories –“ she paused, “—how can you remember something that happened when you weren’t there?”

Harry’s eyes opened slowly and he stared at Hermione, his heart suddenly racing.

He had no answer to her question.


	12. The Past Comes Back to Haunt Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**The Past Comes Back to Haunt Us**

“Mother, please.” Draco squeezed her fingers. She stared into his eyes, looking immeasurably sad. Draco’s alarm heightened.

“I honestly thought it was just Bella being… Bella,” she whispered. “The way she spoke about the Dark Lord, as if there was nothing he couldn’t do, that he was skilled even beyond Dumbledore. That he was skilled beyond death.” She shook her head. “She sounded so mad most of the time, I never knew what was true and what was a product of her sick, overwrought imagination.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then found his again. “She used to say Voldemort could see into Potter’s mind. That they were somehow connected, and he could manipulate what the boy saw. It was how he got Potter to come to the Department of Mysteries that night. He put a vision into his head, of his godfather being tortured. It was how he planned to retrieve the memory that was stored there; he thought it was the key to beating Potter.” She arched a brow. “Of course, we all know how that turned out.”

Draco frowned. “I don’t understand how that relates to Harry seeing my memory.”

She turned her hand, clasping his. Her fingers were cold. “Your father believed that Bellatrix was only partly right. He believed Voldemort could see into Potter’s head, yes. He also believed Potter could see into the Dark Lord’s.” Draco stared at her, still not comprehending. “He believed that part of the reason Potter seemed a step ahead of the Dark Lord for all of those months was that he could see what he was doing, knew what his next plan was. Potter could _see_ what he was ordering his followers to do.”

Draco felt an icy horror slink through his stomach. “He could _see_?”

She squeezed his hand harder. “Yes, darling. We believed he could see.”

Draco felt perilously close to tears. “He never said anything. Not a word.”

“I know.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Perhaps he wanted to spare you that. If he could see what went on, he had to know how much you hated it.”

Draco rubbed his mouth with his free hand. It wasn’t steady. “But, the things I did…”

Narcissa leaned closer. “None of which you wanted to do. You did what you had to survive. Don’t forget that.”

“I did what I had to because I was a coward!” He closed his eyes, groaning miserably. “How could he stand to… gods!” He slammed his fist down on the table. A pile of Christmas crackers that had been on a platter, partially constructed, rolled across the table. They came to rest against their tea cups. “He faced him down in front of all of us. Called him ‘Tom’, for gods sakes. And me? I did whatever I was told because I was afraid!”

“Draco, we were all afraid,” she said, encompassing his hand in both of hers. “All of us. Because Voldemort was mad; he killed with impunity. And he surrounded himself with others as mad as he was. By the time we realized how bad it was, we were hosting the asylum.” He pressed her forehead to his temple. “And worst of all, we’d involved you.” Her voice sounded thickened. “All I cared about for over a year was that you survive, whatever you had to do to accomplish it.”

“But Mother, if he _saw_ …”

“Clearly, it did not matter to him, did it?”

Draco thought about that. Harry apparently hadn’t cared, not then. He’d never said a word. Not a single word...

“Wait,” Draco said, straightening. He squinted. “Saying Harry could see…into _his_ head still doesn’t explain this memory. Voldemort wasn’t at Kings Cross that day.” Narcissa looked miserable, but she nodded slowly. “No, he wasn’t, Mother. I remember.”

“Draco, he was.”

“But… how?”

“You know he could fly, independent of a broom.” Draco nodded. “He could also disillusion himself so fully as to become completely invisible.”

Draco blinked. “He what?”

Narcissa nodded. “He could move amongst his followers, completely undetected. It was why we could never speak freely, never defy him. Because he _knew everything_.”

Draco remembered later, after the journey to the school from King’s Cross. How the Carrows had singled him out and forced him to Crucio a first year. He thought they’d seen his distaste at the station. But maybe Voldemort… and Harry had seen _that_.

Draco thought he might vomit.

oooOOOooo

_“Only Neville pushing Ginny behind a luggage trolley saved her from being in very big trouble.”_

_Harry’s grin widened. Honestly, Ginny had always belonged with Neville. It had just taken them twenty years to figure it out._

_“He’s always been a great guy,” Harry murmured._

_“He has,” Hermione went on. “I just have one question, Harry. If what Fairweather is doing is pulling up your memories –“ she paused, “—how can you remember something that happened when you weren’t there?”_

_Harry’s eyes opened slowly and he stared at Hermione, his heart suddenly racing._

_He had no answer to her question._

Except, maybe he did.

He turned his head to stare into the fire across the room, his thoughts in turmoil. He’d never told Hermione he’d seen what Voldemort was forcing Draco to do through the madman’s eyes; he’d never told anyone. It hadn’t been what he’d thought important at the time. It had showed him that Draco was a reluctant Death Eater, forced to do what he was doing. Forced by fear, and by a need to protect his mother. Harry had even respected that.

“Harry?”

He turned and looked at Hermione, the image of the frightened, traumatized boy Draco had been fading as he looked at her.

“Can I ask you something else, in spite of Draco’s orders to the contrary?” Her lips twisted in an ironic smile.

Harry tried to return it, but doubted he succeeded. “You can ask me anything you want, Hermione. You know that.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So, that six months when you and Ginny were broken up, and you kept disappearing for days at a time. You weren’t just ‘getting your head together’, were you?” 

He swallowed, blindsided by the question. He should have expected it, but he didn’t. 

“What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes, then gave him a sweet, indulgent smile. “You know we wouldn’t care, right? Ron and I? He might have an issue with who, but we’d never judge.”

Harry exhaled heavily. “He wouldn’t? Let’s forget the fact I was married to his sister for twenty one years. Jesus, Hermione.”

“Harry,” she leaned forward. “Were you ever unfaithful to Ginny?”

He stared at her, horrified. “No! I loved Ginny. I still do. And I love my kids. I’d never betray them like that.”

“And wasn’t the divorce Ginny’s idea?”

“Well, yes. But we hadn’t really been happy in a long time. And then she started working with Nev.”

“And if there was someone else, it was before Ginny, wasn’t it?”  
“Yeah.”

“Well, Ron blaming you for that would be rather like me blaming him for Lavender.”

Harry gave her a wry look. “And we know you don’t do that.”

She grinned. “I only remind Won-won when the occasion demands.”

Harry laughed, relieved that his headache was beginning to fade. 

Her brown eyes softened. “You didn’t answer my question, you know. About those six months.”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “I love you, Hermione. But that’s… personal.”

She shrugged and took a sip of her tea. “Can’t blame a witch for trying.” She smiled at him over the rim of her cup.

Harry leaned his head back against the tall back of the chair and closed his eyes, nearly asleep when he heard the fire in the fireplace flare.

“Draco,” Hermione said. Harry eyes shot open and he looked at the fireplace, only to find Draco’s head floating in the flames. 

“Hermione, may I come through?” he asked. “I need to speak with Potter.”

She looked over at Harry, and waited.


	13. Answers and Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

**Answers and Regret**

Harry leaned his head back against the tall back of the chair and closed his eyes, nearly asleep when he heard the fire flare.

“Draco,” Hermione said. Harry eyes shot open and he looked at the fireplace, only to find Draco’s head floating in the flames. 

“Hermione, may I come through?” he asked. “I need to speak with Potter.”

She looked over at Harry, and waited. 

The temptation was there to tell him no. He knew what Draco wanted, and he honestly wasn’t sure he was up to it. But he also knew this had gone on too long. Decades too long.

He nodded slowly. 

“Come through,” Hermione said, rising to her feet. Draco stepped out of the green flames, still wearing the slacks and jumper he’d had on earlier but minus the hat and coat. He seemed to be avoiding Harry’s gaze as he crossed the room to Hermione. He was holding a lavishly decorated white Aspen log, and he held it out to her. 

“From Mother,” he said softly. “For your Solstice.”

“Oh, this is lovely,” Hermione said, studying it with pleasure. “Please thank her for me.”

He nodded, then turned to look at Harry, his hands dropping into his pockets. He studied Harry pensively, and Harry leaned forward, starting to stand. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Draco said crossly. “Just… sit back and give me a minute.”

Harry did as he was told, leaning back, but his eyes never left Draco’s face. 

Hermione looked between them. “Tea, Draco?” She offered mildly, setting the beautiful Yule log on a low table. 

“No, thank you, Hermione. And I know this is unpardonably rude, but I was wondering if Potter and I might have the room for a few minutes.”

She touched his arm. “Of course. But Draco,” she waited until he looked at her, “you yourself said he mustn’t overdo. Please don’t push him too hard.”

He nodded grimly. She sent one more look between them, then left the room.

Draco waited another moment, then crossed to Harry, pulling the ottoman back slightly and sitting on it, facing him. Their knees were so close they nearly touched. Harry held his breath.

“Potter,” Draco said finally, his eyes on the floor.

“Please stop.”

Draco looked up at him.

“Please stop calling me Potter.”

“I always called you Potter.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

Harry was surprised by the pink that touched Draco’s cheeks.

“This isn’t… like that,” Draco said finally. “I think Potter is safer.”

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. “Whatever, Draco. I refuse to call you Malfoy.”

“Fine, you fucking stubborn…” Draco made a sound of irritation, and Harry fought a smile. “Potter,” he persisted. “Please open your eyes.”

Harry did as he was asked, and found Draco staring at him resolutely. There would be no avoiding this conversation, apparently.

“What?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You know what. I want you to tell me why the memory Delius brought forward today isn’t yours.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry said. He’d thought about it, and he felt it was true. “I’ve had that memory for over twenty years. It’s as much mine as any of the others I have.”

Draco shook his head. “You weren’t even there, Potter.”

“But I saw it. And I had no choice in the matter. Once minute I was at Grimauld Place, and the next I was standing in King’s Cross.” He twisted his lip ironically. “It was sort of the way things went for a few years.”

“So it wasn’t just batshit Bella blowing smoke. It’s true. You could see what he saw.” Harry sighed, then nodded. Draco leaned forward. “Starting when?”

Harry shifted in the chair. “After he came back, after the Tri-Wizard.”

“You were fourteen.” 

“So were you.”

Draco shook his head. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, anger making him rigid. “No, it’s not. But what the hell difference does it make now?”

“Apparently, it makes a lot,” Draco countered, leaning in too. “Because you’re suffering from post traumatic stress over shit that happened to me!”

Harry remained stiff for a moment, then collapsed back into the chair. He closed his eyes, his fingers going to his forehead. The ache was growing again.

There was a long pause. “This isn’t the right time,” Draco murmured. Harry was afraid he was going to leave, and as much as his head hurt, he didn’t want him to go. He reached out.

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “Just wait a moment.”

His hand hung there, and he started to pull it back, self-conscious, when Draco curled his fingers around his wrist and held it. Harry curled his fingers into his palm.

“I don’t remember a lot,” Harry said finally. “I did see some of the stuff he made you do. Torturing muggles mostly. I could see how much you hated it, and could feel how angry it made him.”

Draco’s fingers tightened on his wrist. “You could feel his anger?”

“Oh, Gods, yes. When we got in and out of Gringotts. When he couldn’t find the Elder Wand. When he realized we’d found his horcruxes.”

There was a charged silence. Harry didn’t want to look into Draco’s face, but he felt he had to. Draco was staring, beautiful grey eyes wide.

“So it was true,” he breathed. “That he’d made horcruxes.”

It was one of the few things that hadn’t made it into books about the war. Harry, Ron and Hermione had made that decision long ago. They didn’t want anyone else tempted to try it.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, he did. Seven of them.”

Draco covered his mouth with his free hand. “Merlin.”

Harry sighed. “Look, I have no idea why it was one of those memories that came up today. They’ve been coming up more since…” Why the hell had he said that, Harry wondered. He hadn’t meant to.

“Since what?” 

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

Draco’s fingers tightened again on Harry’s wrist. “Potter.” Harry tried to pull free of Draco’s grip, but he wouldn’t let go.

“You’re going to bruise my wrist,” Harry complained.

“No, I’m not,” Draco countered. “As I recall, you’re made of pretty sturdy stuff.”

Harry narrowed his eyes but Draco wasn’t cowed.

“Those memories have been coming up more since –“ Draco stared at him.

Harry huffed out a sigh. “Since my wife left me for one of my best friends, okay?” he said, every bit of his irritation there in his words. “I can’t even be mad at her. They should have been together all this time. I’m glad they weren’t; without my marriage I don’t have my kids. But yeah, the nightmares have been worse since she left me. There, satisfied?”

There was a line, right between Draco’s brows, deeper now than it had been when they’d been young. Harry had tried to ease it with his fingers more than once while Draco slept. He stared at it now, startled by the wave of melancholy that swept over him. 

“Why is that do you think?” Draco finally asked. Harry huffed.

“How the hell should I know?” he said, his irritation growing. 

“You’ve no idea at all?” Draco persisted.

“I’ve been unhappy, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’ve been…” Harry voice trailed off. “I’ve been unhappy. Not that my marriage is over, but that it all seems so… futile.”

“What does?” Draco’s voice was soft, almost soothing. 

“My life,” Harry answered. “What I do. We put one bad guy away, and six more take his place. I feel like it doesn’t matter.” 

He hadn’t said that to anyone, not even Hermione, but he’d been thinking it for a long time. The futility of it all was soul crushing.

“If you weren’t Head Auror,” Draco said, “what would you do?”

Harry huffed out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have no idea.” His humor faded. “I’d like it to be something that made a difference.”

“You don’t think you’ve already done that?” Draco’s voice was thick with irony. Harry shrugged uncomfortably. Draco’s thumb stroked over his pulse point. It was soothing and Harry’s fingers relaxed. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “And what about your personal life, Potter.”

Harry grimaced. “What personal life? I don’t have one.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that, and was sorry he had.


	14. Things Better Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**Things Better Forgotten**

“Don’t you want one?”

Suddenly, Harry was so angry he couldn’t sit there any longer. He pushed up from the chair, then fought a debilitating wave of dizziness. Swaying precariously on his feet, he groped for the back of the chair. Instead Draco stood and grabbed his upper arms, holding him steady.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry hissed, trying ineffectively to pull his arms away.

“Potter, don’t be stupid.” Draco squeezed Harry’s arms hard, giving him a shake. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to get away from you!” Recognizing his inability to fight Draco off and remain standing, Harry closed his eyes, sagging in his grip. “Please,” he whispered. “Please let me go.”

When Draco spoke his voice was near Harry’s ear, and Harry could suddenly feel the heat and strength of Draco’s lithe body, just inches from him. He shuddered. 

“What did I say?” Draco whispered. “All I did…”

Harry opened his eyes to find Draco’s inches away, searching his face. “You asked me if I wanted a personal life,” Harry said, sounding ragged even to himself. “How could you ask me that? You’re the one who made the decision for me, Draco.”

Draco stared at him, looking stricken. “Potter, I…” 

He didn’t seem to know what to say, and whatever it might have been, Harry didn’t want to hear it. Not right then. “Just – let me sit down.”

Draco lowered him gently into the chair. There was a long silence between them. “I’m sorry, Potter,” Draco said finally. “Here I tell Hermione not to pester you, and I’m the one to do it.” Harry looked up at him with an effort, saw Draco’s pale face, saw the faint trembling in his hands. “I should go and let you rest.”

Harry nodded wearily. Why had he expected anything else?

“I’ll meet you at Delius’s office tomorrow at 2,” Draco went on. Harry was surprised by that, and it must have showed. “I said I would come,” Draco said resolutely, his mouth set. “And I will.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured. Draco nodded, then turned and left through the Floo.

“All right.” Hermione came around the door frame at the entryway, and Harry knew she’d been shamelessly eavesdropping. “I’m going to have to insist you tell me what’s going on between you two.” She propped her hands on her hips. “One moment longer, and I’d have come in here and hexed him into next week, and he’s my _friend_ , dammit! Harry, what was that all about?”

It was time, he supposed. Probably beyond time. “I’ll tell you, Hermione,” he whispered. “Just – not right this second, okay?”

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “Then I’m going with you tomorrow. Someone needs to be there to make sure it doesn’t go too far.”

Harry didn’t even bother to argue with her. He’d known her for more than thirty years, and he hadn’t won an argument with her yet.

oooOOOooo

Draco moved as quickly as he could through Diagon Alley, slipping between the groups of Christmas Shoppers. The Alley was a crowded as it had ever been before the war, even if some of the businesses had changed. Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor was now Digglesworth’s Candy and Frozen Cream. Olivander had retired after the war, and who could blame him? His business had been taken over by a nephew, and had been modernized to include a conveyor belt that brought wands out from the rear of the shop. For his part, Draco missed the towering stacks of wands, precariously piled one on top of the other, old man Olivander the only one who knew where anything was. But he did suppose the new way was more efficient.

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes now took up an entire block, and the outside was as loud and garish as ever. The remaining twin was rumored to be a multi-millionaire, and most of the rest of the extended family seemed to work there but for the Weaslette and her offspring. Draco had of course paid particular attention to the middle boy, the one who was Potter’s doppleganger. It had become even more pressing when the boy had become Scorpius’s friend while they’d been at school. He knew Potter’s eldest had followed his Uncle Bill Weasley into curse breaking at Gringott’s. The girl was apprenticing with Madam Maulkin. And the middle boy, Potter’s twin had followed dear old dad into the ranks of the Auror’s. He knew he didn’t work directly under his Father, but Draco had seen him strutting around the Ministry in his red robes. Scorpius was finishing his Potions Master degree in Austria, and Draco was delighted he had no desire to work for the Ministry. He wouldn’t have advised against Scorpius working for the MLE, but he was glad he didn’t have to.

He rounded the corner of the street where Delius’s office was, and was surprised when he saw that the sidewalk in front of the building was empty. Thinking perhaps Potter was waiting for him inside, Draco hurried his pace, pulling his cap from his head as he opened the door. The bell above it rang, but no one inside would notice. Not with the raised voices he heard the minute he was over the threshold.

“I told you, Ms Weasley,” Delius was saying patiently. “You cannot sit in on his session.”

“I don’t know why not.” Draco rounded the corner and saw Hermione standing there, her arms crossed and her jaw jutted forward. “Malfoy attends.”

“Because Mr Potter specifically asked him to.” Delius looked between them. Harry noticed that Potter looked particularly uncomfortable. 

Hermione turned on him. “Well?” 

He sighed in exasperation. “Hermione, I told you we would talk. I didn’t tell you you could sit in on these sessions.” 

She walked over and sat in one of the chairs lining the wall. “Fine.” She crossed her legs, her lips pursed. “I’m going to wait right here.” She saw Draco and glared at him.

He held up his hands. “Don’t look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” she said, eyes narrowed. “And I’m telling you in no uncertain terms; anything happens to him in there today, and I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Of course you are.”

Draco gave her a wry look as he followed Delius and Potter into the inner office.

oooOOOooo

Draco was nervous about the session; after the revelations of the day before, he thought it was understandable that he be unsettled about what might be revealed. Potter went under much faster, and Delius began to instruct him to bring a memory forward more quickly than Draco was ready. He crossed his arms, clutching his elbows.

“He’s in the Manor,” Potter said finally. “There’s been a raid on a Muggle house, and he’s irritated about how it went. But he’s looking forward to something, too. Something that he will find entertaining.”

Draco noticed the change in tense. Potter was no longer revealing a memory of Draco’s, but describing what he was seeing through the monster’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what it said about him that he was relieved by that.

“You aren’t seeing this from Draco’s point of view this time,” Delius said, his voice soft. “Whose eyes are you looking through?”

“His,” Potter answered without opening his eyes. He saw Delius shudder; he didn’t need to ask who.

“What happened next, Harry?” 

“He summoned Lucius Malfoy. God, he hated the man. His weakness infuriated him.”

“What did he want with Lucius?” Delius asked.

“To berate him. To tell him he was a bad father, that he hadn’t trained Draco well enough.”

“Trained him to do what?”

Harry’s lip curled. “Torture. Maim. Kill. All of the things he used to instill terror. It was all about fear with him.”

Draco stiffened slightly. His mother had used almost the exact same words. 

“Did he torture Lucius?” Delius asked.

Harry shook his head. “No, he just humiliated him in front of everyone. And then he sent for Draco.”

Draco stiffened. The urge to run out the door was almost overwhelming.

“He told Lucius to manage his son, to teach him a lesson. He asked Lucius if his son truly deserved wear the Malfoy crest on his hand.”

“Oh, gods, no,” Draco thought. He curled the hand that still wore the Malfoy ring into a fist. He knew where this was going. Just the thought of it made his skin feel too tight. 

“Lucius demanded the ring, but the boy straightened, stared his father in the face and said no. He is grudgingly impressed. Perhaps there’s more to the boy than he thought. He tells Lucius to use the _Crucio_ , and he does, but the boy doesn’t break. He writhes on the floor, but he doesn’t break.”

Draco closed his eyes. But he did break. 

“He manages to maintain his silence until Malfoy is told to remove the ring with a spell; a spell that would burn the ring from his hand. It took a long time. He enjoyed every moment, the sick fuck. The boy was brave, but ultimately he broke.”

His father had finally gotten the ring, Draco thought darkly. But not before he’d burned the flesh of Draco’s finger nearly to the bone. 

It was why he wore the signet ring in just that spot and had from the moment his bastard of a father had died. The scar beneath the ring was exactly the right size and shape for the silver ring to hide it.

Potter had seen, and he'd never said a word.


	15. Comfort and Joy - part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

**Comfort and Joy - part 1**

Draco closed his eyes, sick to his stomach. He and Delius had dealt with many of these memories long ago, but the idea Potter had witnessed them was so much worse, somehow. He could hear Delius murmuring to Potter, his voice deep and soothing. After a moment he forced himself to open his eyes and look at Potter, and what he saw sent a shaft of pain through his chest.

Potter’s eyes were closed, but there were tears slipping from beneath his lashes, streaking his pale cheeks. He’d only seen Potter cry once, and it was a memory he didn’t allow himself to revisit.

“What about this memory makes you so sad, Harry?” Delius murmured.

Potter’s brow furrowed. “He tried so hard,” he whispered. “But he never stood a chance. And Voldemort hurt him as a form of entertainment. It was sick.”

“Yes,” Delius agreed. “It was. Let’s move forward from there, shall we? To after the war. Let’s try for something happier. Can you bring forward something that made you happy?”

Potter’s face smoothed into more relaxed lines, and his breathing evened. Draco watched him carefully. He was so bloody handsome, he thought, searching his face. Potter had been handsome at nineteen, too, but it was different. He’d grown into his features: the high cheekbones that had once seemed too sharp were now perfectly proportioned, and the jaw that had been raw boned was now square and strong. He wore his hair shorter now than he had when they’d been young, but the more streamlined cut suited him. There was silver threaded through the black at his temples, and Draco had a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to see if it was as soft as he knew the black hair was. He linked his hands together and squeezed until his knuckles were white.

“Have you found a memory, Harry? One that brings you joy? Perhaps one about Christmas?”

Potter’s face was transformed by a slow grin. “Yeah,” he murmured. 

“Will you share it with me?”

Potter nodded slowly. “It was the first Christmas after the war. We were all so bloody grateful to be alive. Me in particular. I never really expected to make it, particularly after I saw Snape’s memories. I wanted to do something special for someone special.”

Draco thought if had to listen to details of a shopping trip Potter had made to buy something for that red-headed she-bitch, he would vomit. He’d never liked the Weaslette, even before she’d married Potter.

“I knew it would be a surprise,” Potter went on. “His family didn’t spend time in the Muggle world if they could avoid it.”

A night he’d all but forgotten filled Draco’s mind. Could it be...

“I took him out through the Leaky Cauldron,” Potter went on. “He bitched the entire way.” Potter chuckled. “He just wanted to get out of the cold, but I insisted. And it was worth it.”

It had been, Draco remembered, feeling a smile tug his lips. Potter had pulled him out through the Cauldron, grinning like a fool the entire time. He’d grabbed his gloved hand once they were around the corner where no witch or wizard could see them, and he’d pulled Draco down streets and through alleys until they arrived at a wide, busy avenue.

“Close your eyes,” Potter had ordered, but there’d been a smile in his voice. 

“And let you push me out into oncoming traffic?” Draco retorted. “Not bloody likely.” 

Potter had leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “If I push you into traffic, I can’t take you home and shag you, now can I?”

Draco had rolled his eyes but he’d been filled with anticipation. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Potter,” he’d drawled, but he’d closed his eyes and let Potter lead him forward. To him, it felt like they walked another block, and he felt completely vulnerable, but safe, too. He knew Potter would never allow anything bad to happen to him.

Finally, they’d stopped, and Potter had put his hands on his shoulders and turned him. He felt his lanky body against his back, and his breath against his ear. Even now, the memory caused a rush of arousal. “All right,” Potter whispered. “Open your eyes.”

Draco had, and instantly he’d been transported to a magical, noisy world. There were some of the motorized vehicles Muggles called cars, and the two decker, red buses that were a smaller version of the Knight Bus. But above them all, seeming to hang unsupported in the air, were thousands of bright, twinkling lights. Like stars strung together, he’d thought at the time. Chandeliers more beautiful than any in the Manor, dangling against the black night sky. 

“How,” he’d breathed. “They have no magic.”

“They have magic, Draco,” Potter said against his ear, wrapping his arms around him. “It’s just different than ours.”

Draco hadn’t thought about it in years, but as he listened to Potter speak, the magic of that night came back to him, and he felt his eyes fill at the memory.


	16. Comfort and Joy - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below

**Comfort and Joy - part 2**

“Can you think of another memory, Harry? One that brings you joy?”

Delius’s voice seemed to be coming to him from far away. Harry was still wrapped in the memory of that first Christmas after the war, when he’d stood on a busy street and held Draco in his arms. He pulled himself back from the memory with effort, and let his mind drift. It didn’t go far. 

“Yes,” he said in answer to Delius’s question. “There’s another.”

“Can you tell me?”

Harry nodded. His head felt heavy but buoyant at the same time. He smiled. 

“He wouldn’t tell me where we were going. Only that it was his turn to surprise me.” He chuckled. “He took me shopping for clothes, telling me I had absolutely nothing suitable, but he wouldn’t tell me for what. It was the first time I’d been to the magical district in Paris. Hell, it was the first time I’d been to Paris! Me, shopping for clothes in Paris.” He laughed out loud. “Poor Draco, trying to get me comfortable with cashmere and silk. When he’d finally spent an obscene amount on a shirt, tie, pants and a coat, he deigned me acceptable to be seen in public with.” Harry sighed wistfully. “He had no idea it was the first time, outside of school, that I’d worn a tie. The night we went out, I met him at an Apparition point just inside the Leaky entrance to Diagon Alley. We side-alonged to a dark, narrow alley and he led the way down a short walkway to where it opened onto a large square.” 

“There were hundreds of people heading into a cluster of modern, minimalistic buildings that seemed to be right in the middle of a neighborhood. I knew we weren’t in central London, but I had no idea where we were. Once we were inside, the whole thing was sensory overload. Vast lobbies and coffee shops and restaurants; I just let Draco lead me along. We went into this massive theatre, very modern and sleek, and took seats several rows from the front, but right in the center. Somehow I knew they were the best seats in the house.”

He smiled. “For some reason, I was really nervous. I could see the stage was set up for something, but I had no idea what. And I was so afraid I’d embarrass him. Culturally, I was so backward. But I was fascinated, too. Most of the seats in the theater were full by the time the musicians took the stage.”

He paused, allowing the pleasure to fill him up, the wonder to resurface. “I’ll never forget it for as long as I live,” Harry finally went on. “The sound of it. The music seemed to enter my chest, fill me up until I was lifted by it.” He felt tears in his eyes but ignored them. “I’d never heard anything like it. I haven’t since. Ginny wanted to go see the symphony once, but I told her no. She thought I was just being like her brothers, that I thought it stupid. That wasn’t it at all.” He swallowed, but his throat still felt thick. “I couldn’t bear the idea of sitting there with her, sharing an experience that in my mind would always belong to someone else. To Draco.”

Delius let the silence linger for several minutes. He let Harry linger in his memory of seeing the symphony, or reliving the wonder of the music, the joy of the mass carols that were sung at the end. He’d heard them, of course, but he didn’t think he was much of a singer. But Draco – gods, Draco could sing, his voice a full, lilting baritone and Harry sat beside him and listened, falling more in love with him. When Draco had reached over with his hand while he sang, Harry linked their fingers and listened, and for the first time in his life he understood what complete, uncomplicated joy felt like.

“All right, Harry. It’s time to come back now. When I begin at five, you will leave the memory behind. When I get to three, you’ll feel more alert. When I arrive at one, you will be wide awake with a complete recollection of the memories you’ve shared with me today. Five, leave the memory, no matter how pleasant, behind. Four, you’re more alert. Three, you feel safe and rested. Two, these memories, even the unpleasant ones, bring you no more pain. And one, you’re wide awake.”

Harry opened his eyes, and his vision was blurred. He reached up and touched his face, finding the streaks of tears on his skin. He ran his fingers hastily under his eyes. The last thing he wanted for was Draco to see him tearing up.

“So,” Delius said, “how do you feel?”

Harry thought about it. “I feel good,” he answered. “Really good.”

Delius nodded. He turned his head, and Harry followed his line of vision, then stared, eyes wide. Draco’s nose was pink, and he hastily brought his hands down, but Harry could see that his lashes were wet, clumped star-like around his pale eyes. Had Draco been crying, too?

“So, gentlemen,” Delius said. “Perhaps it’s time for us all to have a conversation.”

Harry frowned. “All of us? I thought…”

“That this was about you?” Delius provided. “I’m not sure about that any longer, Harry. Has it occurred to you that the memories that bring you the most distress aren’t just yours?” Harry licked his lips, suddenly uncomfortable. “And the memories that seem to bring you the most pleasure,” Delius went on, “aren’t just yours, either.” He looked back and forth between them. “I think it’s time we discuss your relationship. Don’t you?”

Harry looked at Draco, surprised to find he was already studying him with resignation.


	17. A Truce Over Manhattans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**A Truce Over Manhattans**

Harry tore his eyes away. “I…” he began, and then stopped. He rubbed his fingers over his dry mouth, unsure he could do this. He’d never discussed it, not with anyone.

“Potter.” Harry turned back to Draco. “Just tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Harry shot back. “There’s nothing to tell, is there? You made pretty sure of that.”

Draco leaned back in his chair with a loud sigh. “Merlin. I did what I thought I had to do.”

“You did what was easiest.”

Now Draco’s eyes flared with anger. “If you think that was _easy_ , you’re out of your goddamned mind.”

Harry began to retort when Delius held up his hand. “Harry, not everyone in the room has the plot, here.” Harry eased back in his chair, his heart still racing. It had always been that way with Draco; from nothing to arousal or amusement or pulse pounding fury in a heartbeat. “If I didn’t believe the heart of what is bothering you was based in your relationship with Draco, I’d have never brought this up. But we must be able to at least discuss it.”

Harry bit his lower lip, feeling scolded. Reluctantly, he nodded. 

“Good,” Delius said, his voice warm. “That’s good. Now, can one of you help me understand what happened? Maybe tell me when this started.”

Draco laughed roughly. “What, when we first noticed each other, or when we went from that to wanting to shag one another senseless.”

“Jesus, Draco,” Harry muttered. “It’s not all about fucking.”

Draco raised one brow as he looked at him, and Harry was grudgingly amused. 

“We met our first day at school,” Harry began finally. “And we hated each other on sight.”

“Now…” Draco murmured.

“Oh, you hated me,” Harry said. 

“I didn’t hate you,” Draco said emphatically. “I was fascinated by you. I’d heard your name my entire life. Then you chose Weasley to be friends with over me. And you wouldn’t shake my hand.”

“You were being a prat,” Harry said. “You reminded me of my stuck up cousin.”

Draco shuddered delicately. “Gods, now _that’s_ insulting.”

“So you were what?” Delius broke in. “Eleven?”

“When we met, yes,” Harry confirmed. 

“When we started wanting in one another’s pants, more like fifteen.”

Harry looked at Draco in consternation. “I didn’t want in your pants when we were fifteen.”

“Fine, perhaps you had a few things on your plate,” Draco said wryly. “I wanted in yours when I was fifteen.” He looked at Delius. “The bastard left after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, all shaggy hair and scrawny ass, and went home for summer. He came back the next fall, looking, well…” Draco paused and gestured towards Harry with his hand, “more like _that_ , and from there on out I was pretty much obsessed with him.”

Harry remembered how Ginny had accused him of being obsessed with Malfoy during his sixth year, and shook his head, smiling faintly. “You weren’t the only one sixth year.”

“Gods, you were annoying,” Draco said without heat, and with a trace of amusement. “Here I had a megalomaniac telling me what to do, and you were just… everywhere.” 

“You say that so cavalierly, Draco,” Delius said. “But I know you weren’t as casual about it at the time.”

Draco’s amusement faded. “No, I wasn’t. I couldn’t afford to be.” He found Harry’s eyes again. “He was threatening my mother.”

“I know,” Harry responded. “I never blamed you.”

Draco nodded. “I think I always knew that, too.” They stared at one another for a long, pensive moment.

“So,” Delius said, “would one of you tell me how the two of you became reacquainted once the war was over?”

Harry looked over at Draco, and waited. Draco huffed. “Fine, I’ll take this one.” 

He leaned back in his chair and slowly crossed his long legs.

oooOOOooo

Draco hadn’t wanted to go to the bloody party. He wasn’t prepared for the way he knew people were going to look at him. The wounds were still too raw, on both sides. Returning for his eighth year was bad enough. But playing nice with the Gryffindorks because McGonnagall wanted the ‘adults’ to show _maturity and restraint_ was almost more than he could stomach. He grimaced. And he doubted she’d had quite this kind of do in mind. Everyone was disgustingly drunk. It was probably why they weren’t presently killing one another. But watching Pansy make out with Dean Thomas while the Weaslette looked ready to kill (and wasn’t it interesting that she was back with Thomas instead of with Potter. And what had happened to Longbottom? Oh, wait; he was in the corner lip locked with Lovegood. My, my…) simply was not Draco’s idea of a good time.

Zabini had hired the bartender and he’d been making exotic drink after exotic drink all night. Some of them smoked, others had miniature fireworks exploding over them (he ignored those emphatically, but Weaslebee seemed to like them – and be completely unaware they turned his face that interesting purple one of the Patil twins was trying to lick off.) Where was Granger, anyway? Then Draco spotted her, sitting at a corner table and looking miserable. Again. That was a flashback to sixth year.

She was sitting with Potter. A zing shot down Draco’s spine on sight of him and centered right in his groin, and he turned away. Merlin, of all people to remind him he liked blokes. Dark-haired blokes with lanky, rangy builds, apparently. Potter had returned to school, shocking everyone, cementing his superstar status permanently. It was funny, though. He didn’t act like he thought he was a superstar. He seemed like he just wanted to be left alone. Draco snorted. As if that was likely.

“Do you know what a Manhattan is?”

Draco had been so busy with his thoughts he hadn’t been aware of Potter’s approach. He stiffened and turned his head to look at him. He was right at his elbow, and his wide green eyes looked faintly sheepish.

“Oh my God,” the bartender, who had been smooth and full of himself all evening, said, staring at Potter in awe. “You’re Harry Potter.”

Draco saw red flush over Potter’s cheeks, and he closed his eyes, looking mortified.

“He knows who he is, you bloody berk.” Draco hadn’t expected to speak, so he was faintly surprised he had. “He asked you a question.”

The bartender shot him an aggravated looked. “I heard him, you bitchy little queen.”

Draco arched his brow in surprise. 

“There’s no call for you to be an ass, either,” Potter said before Draco could speak. “And maybe queens in black eye-liner shouldn’t throw stones. Now, do you know what a Manhattan is or not?”

It was the bartender who was now red-faced. He nodded quickly. “I know what it is.”

“Fine,” Potter snarled. “We’ll take two.” He looked over at Draco. “Unless you’d like to join us, Malfoy?”

Draco blinked. He certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_. “I… uhm, sure.”

Potter turned back to the bartender. “Then it will be three.”


	18. He Said Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**He Said Yes**

“So, how was that evening around the table?” Delius asked, clearly amused.

“Awkward,” Potter answered. Draco snorted.

“There’s the understatement of the decade,” he said with a smirk. “I could see Potter wondering why in hell he’d done it almost the moment the words left his mouth.”

“That isn’t true,” Potter retorted. “I never questioned it. I just never knew what to say to you. You’re so fucking snarky.”

Draco shrugged absently. “I can’t help it if you were socially awkward.”

“Were?” Potter sent him a surprising smile that made butterflies take flight in Draco’s stomach. “Are you intimating I’m no longer socially awkward?”

Draco felt an involuntary smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve improved in some areas.”

Potter’s smile ripened and warmed, and Draco found himself wondering what thoughts in Potter’s head translated to that look in his eyes. 

“So, it was awkward,” Delius prompted. “Would you care to elaborate, Draco?”

Draco shifted in his seat. “Well, Granger was miserable. She was so clearly in love with Weaselbee, Merlin only knows why, and he was so utterly oblivious, even though they’d been together at the end of the war.”

“He wasn’t ready for anything serious,” Potter said softly. “I think he was doing anything he could to forget he’d lost one of his brothers. I’m not saying it was smart, but I understand it.”

Draco felt like a jerk for being so insensitive. He understood it, too. He still missed Vince’s sardonic sense of humor.

“You all had a great deal to come to terms with,” Delius said softly. 

“That night our coping mechanism was copious amounts of alcohol.” Draco’s eyes went back to Potter. “Granger is a terrible light weight, so she headed out to bed early. But Potter and I --,” he shook his head with a wry laugh, “ – we were two of the last to leave the Gryffindor common room. I was amazed how much he could drink and not become sloppy. For my part, I was completely polluted; Potter was very chivalrous and offered to walk me to my door.”

Draco watched a rust colored stain begin to spread up from Potter’s collar. Oh, this could be fun. “There are so many little alcoves at Hogwarts, aren’t there, Potter?”

To his surprise, Potter’s blush remained but his eyes were steady. 

“I know every one,” he said. “That one behind the tapestry in the main entrance hall was just convenient.”

“Convenient for what?” Delius prodded when it appeared he wasn’t going to go on.

“Convenient for a good, extended snog,” Potter answered without flinching. His eyes never left Draco’s. “I’d never kissed a boy before,” he went on. “It was a revelation.”

“How so, Harry?” Delius asked. 

“Girls were soft, for one. Draco was all points and angles, his chest flat and hard, his hipbones prominent. “‘Among other things,’ his eyes seemed to say. Heat slid down Draco’s spine. “The girls, even Ginny, always seemed tentative, and careful, as if I was supposed to be the aggressor, every time.” He finally pulled his eyes away. “There was nothing tentative about Draco. I started it, but he shoved me into the wall and took it someplace I’d never been before with anyone.”

Delius leaned forward. “And where was that?”

Potter looked both flushed and slightly shy. I was a heady combination. 

“Someplace wild and unrestrained. I’d never felt anything like it in my life.”

Delius nodded thoughtfully. “So, if I may ask… did your affair begin while you were still at school, then?”

Potter looked startled, and even Draco felt a moment’s alarm. The silence that followed was charged with unease.

Delius looked between them. “I’m sorry, did I misread your comfort level with the topic? After what we’d just discussed I assumed…We can certainly adjourn to another day, but if we’re going to get to the crux of what’s going on with you, Harry, I think…”

“No, it’s all right,” Potter said abruptly. “It didn’t begin while we were at school. I chalked it up to too much Firewhiskey and Draco ignored me after, so I assumed he wanted the same.” He cleared his throat. “And I wouldn’t call it an affair. Our… relationship didn’t begin then.”

Delius nodded sagely. “So, you would describe what occurred between you a relationship?” Potter’s nod was sharp. “I know how Draco felt about it; I just needed to know if you felt the same.”

Potter turned large, shockingly naked eyes to Draco. “I wish he’d tell me how he felt about it; I’ve never been certain.”

Draco had a dozen flip answers he could provide, but looking into those wounded green eyes, he found he couldn’t do it. “Potter,” he murmured. “I told you how I felt. That last night, I told you.”

Draco felt as if Potter was staring into his soul. “Did you mean it?”

Draco wanted to touch him so badly. His fingers tightened around his own knuckles instead. “Yes,” he said finally. “I meant it.”

It looked as if some of the air had been let out of Potter. He sagged in the chair, he eyes closing. 

“May I…?” Delius said tentatively. 

Draco tore his eyes from Potter. “No,” he answered flatly. “Not to that.”

“But, Draco, if this is going to be successful—“

“When he’s ready, Delius,” Draco muttered. “And not before.”

Delius didn’t look happy about it, but he didn’t press. “So, when did you begin seeing one another, then?”

Potter straightened. “We’d been out of school for nearly a year. I ran into him in Diagon Alley when I was Christmas shopping.”

“Flourish and Botts,” Draco said fondly. “For Granger, obviously.”

Potter nodded. “Obviously. I doubt Ron would appreciate anything I found there.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco said lightly. “’Quidditch Through the Ages’, perhaps. Or the ‘Big Book of Toilet Humor’.”

Potter snorted, a laugh escaping in spite of himself. 

“I was in the section on Ancient Runes, and I had no idea what the hell I was doing,” Potter said. “Draco offered to help me pick something out.”

“I hadn’t seen him since we left school, and he looked – amazing, ” Draco murmured. “He was wearing his Auror robes, and I always have been a sucker for a man in uniform.” Potter sent him a small smile.

“He was wearing a grey wool coat and matching hat,” Potter murmured. “It was the exact color of his eyes, and they looked so open, and accessible. For the first time ever, I thought if I said something to him, asked him something, he wouldn’t laugh at me.”

Draco felt a moment’s regret for the way he’d treated Potter for all of those years. Gods, he’d been an idiot. 

“That night, when I got home,” Potter went on, “I sent him an owl, asking him out. Merlin, I’ve never been so terrified in my life.”

“Terrified he’d say no?” Delius asked knowingly.

“That, yes,” Potter agreed. “And that he’d take the note to Skeeter and I’d be outed on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.”

“Not bloody likely,” Draco muttered.

“But I didn’t know that at the time. Mostly, I was scared witless.” 

“So was I,” Draco admitted softly. “Part of me was certain it was some sort of joke. Or a way to publicly humiliate me. But then I’d remember that kiss, and I’d think he had as much, if not more, to lose than I did.”

Delius looked between them. “So? What happened?”

Draco gave him a wry look. “You know what happened, Delius.” He looked back at Potter. “I said yes.”


	19. All I Want for Christmas Is...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**All I Want for Christmas Is**

Harry remembered doing a little happy dance around the living room of his small flat when he’d received Draco’s return owl.

‘Actually, I’d like very much to go out with you,’ Draco had written in response to his simple, ‘Malfoy, will you go out with me?’. ‘What did you have in mind?’

That had stumped Harry, but only for a moment. ‘Why don’t you let me decide?’ he’d written back. ‘Meet me at the London entrance to the Leaky at eight on Friday.’ And that had been that. Their first date was set.

Harry took Draco to the cinema. He took a chance Draco had never been, and he’d been right. He couldn’t even remember what they’d gone to see, partly because he’d spent the entire time watching the emotions that played out over Draco’s mobile face. Harry didn’t know if it was the war that had changed him, but he didn’t think Draco had always been that expressive. Perhaps Harry hadn’t realized it because all he’d seen on Draco’s face during school was disdain. He didn’t know; he only knew watching Draco was like seeing into his heart. And he’d been captivated.

Draco was undeniably beautiful. It was the only word for it. With his refined features, full lips and long lashes, handsome had seemed too coarse a word for Draco. His lithe, slender build was accented in his beautifully cut slacks, cable knit jumper and black double breasted pea coat. And for the first time Draco hadn’t worn his hair gelled back from his face. It was in soft waves, longer over his forehead, short over his ears and around his collar, and Gods, Harry had spent the whole evening wanting to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

He hadn’t found out until the end of the evening, when unable to hold off any longer, Harry pulled Draco into a narrow alley as they walked back to the Leaky Cauldron and the attached Apparition point. He leaned back into the brick wall, slipped his fingers through the very soft hair above each of Draco’s ears and pulled him into an open mouthed kiss. When Draco promptly thrust his tongue into Harry’s mouth in a move that stole his breath, Harry moaned. Draco slipped his knee between Harry’s, pressing forward and putting pressure on Harry’s already hard cock, and Harry gasped into Draco’s mouth, hips angling forward. 

Draco pulled his lips from Harry’s mouth, insinuating his hand between them, caressing Harry’s stomach, then his hipbone.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco whispered harshly when Harry’s mouth latched onto the skin on the side of his throat. “I’d not heard you were a vampire.”

Harry laughed raggedly against his skin. “I’ve never much wanted to bite anyone before, but your skin is too tempting.” He took a sharp nip of the white flesh and Draco jerked in his arms, cursing under his breath but pressing closer. His hand traveled from Harry’s hip and settled over the erection trapped behind Harry’s zipper, and it was Harry’s turn to curse.

“Jesus, Draco,” he murmured against his skin. “I want you.”

Draco shuddered against him. “What about the Weaslette?” 

“What about her? You’d date me if I was still with Ginny, just wouldn’t fuck me?”

Draco withdrew his hand and Harry nearly wept. He pulled back slightly and looked into Harry’s eyes. “Are you still with her?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.

“No,” Harry answered. “If I was, I wouldn’t be on a date with you. I don’t do that.”

Draco searched his face. “You wouldn’t be the first man to lie to me,” he said. Harry frowned, wondering who but Draco apparently found whatever he’d been searching for in Harry’s eyes because he speared his fingers through Harry’s hair and took his mouth in another mind altering kiss. Harry reached around him, filling his palms with Draco’s arse and pulling him in tight against his body. Draco undulated against him, and he could feel Draco’s hardness lining up along side his own. 

Just when Harry was afraid he might come in his trousers, Draco pulled out of his arms. 

“I have to go,” he said breathlessly. 

“Can I see you again?” Harry asked quickly before he could Apparate away. Draco studied his face for a long moment, then his face lit up in a beautiful smile. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that,” he said. “And yes, Potter, you can see me again.”

“Harry.” Harry snagged one of Draco’s hands before he could back further away. “Call me Harry.”

Draco squeezed his hand and released it, backing out of reach. “Why don’t we see how a second date goes before we commit to any life altering changes, shall we?” 

With that he Apparated away, leaving Harry both achingly hard, and happier than he’d ever been in his life.

“So, how was the date?” Delius asked, smiling faintly.

Arousal unlike anything he’d felt in two decades slipped down Harry’s spine as he and Draco shared a long, heated look. “It was good,” he said finally.

“Really good,” Draco agreed, the corner of his lips lifting in an ironic smile. “But not nearly as good as the next one.”

Harry knew he was blushing from the heat that filled his cheeks. 

Yeah, the second date had been better. Probably because Draco had invited him with a Christmas card unlike any he’d ever got before. 

He and Ron had been in class with the other Auror recruits, learning in mind numbing detail how to fill in reports, when an owl had glided in though the open doorway. It dropped an envelope on Harry’s table, then flew out again without landing. Their instructor had said something snarky about ‘reading his fan mail on his own time’, and Harry had slid the envelope under his book. When their break had finally arrived, and he could see Ron was busy chatting up one of the women in their training level, he’d withdrawn the envelope and slid his fingers under the wax seal, popping it open. 

When he’d withdrawn the card, he knew his eyes had gone very wide. There was an obviously male hand shown holding a card that read, “All I want for Christmas is you…. _naked_ ”. Harry turned it over. Written in a strong, elegant hand was, “ready for date number two, _Harry_?”

He’d been grinning like a fool when he’d slipped it into a pocket inside his Aurors robe.


	20. Confessions Long Overdue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**Confessions Long Overdue**

Draco studied Potter’s face, entertained by the blush splashed across his high cheekbones. He always had been prone to blush; it was one of the things Draco had loved about him. One of the many things.

“Well, now we’ve discussed how your relationship began,” Delius said thoughtfully. “And I think that’s enough for today.” He looked between them, his face somber. “But when you come back, we have to start delving into some of the darker aspects of your relationship.” Draco saw Potter flinch and close his eyes reflexively, and the hurt on his face made Draco’s chest ache. He’d put that pain there, and even all these years later he hated himself for it. “There has to be a reason, Harry,” Delius went on, “that what trigger your episodes of PTSD are wartime memories that involve Draco. And because they involve Draco, he needs to be a part of your treatment. Don’t you agree?”

Draco held his breath until Potter nodded. It would have been just like him to deny it, to try to brave it out by himself. Perhaps it was a sign of his growing maturity that he didn’t do that. 

“So, tomorrow at the same time, then?” Delius stood and offered Potter his hand. Potter stood, accepted the gesture and shook his hand. Delius then turned to Draco, who shook his hand as well. 

“Draco, I –“ Potter began, his voice tight. He paused to take a deep breath. “Could you please tell Hermione I’ll speak with her later? I just don’t have the energy to deal with all of her questions right now.”

Draco studied his face, saw the haggard lines cut into his cheeks and the tightness around his eyes. “You will owe me,” Draco said darkly. Potter managed a smile.

“Duly noted.” 

He gave Draco a nod, and disappeared with a sharp ‘pop’.

When Draco emerged from the interior office, Hermione jumped to her feet, searching his face, then looked behind him. The tight line of her lips flattened.

“So that was him, Apparating out.”

“Yes.” 

She huffed and crossed her arms. “I’ll just go to his flat, then. He can’t keep avoiding me forever.”

“Hermione, leave the man alone,” Draco snapped, his voice stern. She looked at him in a combination of surprise and irritation.

“Excuse me, but he’s my friend,” she countered. 

“And so am I, but honestly, love, you can be so bloody single-minded at times.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “You say you’re his friend; so, be his friend and give him the space he needs right now.”

“I’d never push…” He angled his head and even she couldn’t pursue that argument any further. She sighed. “Is he okay?” 

Draco paused, then nodded. “He will be.”

She looked toward the interior office door again, and he could see her arguing with herself. To follow Potter, or not to follow him. Rarely a person who behaved impulsively, Draco spoke before he could second guess himself.

“Give him some time today,” he said. “And I’ll answer any question I can.”

“Any question?” He could see the confrontational gleam in her eyes, and for a moment he doubted his altruism. Perhaps he should just let her go after Potter… but he couldn’t. Not when he’d seen how tired he’d appeared.

“Yes. But let’s resign to your sitting room, shall we? I could use a glass of wine.”

She agreed, and they side-along Apparated into her entry way.

As Draco slipped out of his jacket, he became aware of a delectable fragrance filling the air. “What is that?” he asked, actually raising his head and sniffing. He could detect cinnamon and nutmeg, and other spices that made his mouth water.

“Rose was going to be working on Christmas puddings this morning. Perhaps that’s it?” 

She led the way into the kitchen, and there were two perfect Christmas puddings, complete with holly and berries, plated on the kitchen table. Between them was a note that read, “Having tea with Victore’ and Teddy. Will be home in time for supper.”

“She does very nice work,” Draco said, smiling. 

Hermione smiled wistfully. “Well, it’s good one of us can cook.” She turned to him. “Do you want tea, or were you serious about that glass of wine?”

“Are you going to hold me to my promise?” he said, only partly teasing.

She shot him a wry look.

“Then wine, definitely.”

Ultimately she poured two glasses, offered him one half filled with Chardonnay and carried her own and the bottle into the drawing room. She kicked off her shoes and sat on a loveseat, then gave him just enough time to settle into an arm chair and take one deep drink from his glass. 

“All right,” she said, following suit and then setting her glass on a side table. “Talk to me.”

He huffed. “Talk to you. Ask me a question.”

One of her brows arched. “And you’ll answer?”

He sighed, settling more deeply into his chair. “To the best of my abilities.”

“All right.” She curled her legs beneath her. “How long were you and Harry together, and when?”

Draco looked across the room at her Christmas tree. “About six months,” he said finally. “And it began the second Christmas after the war.” He smiled fleetingly. “I ran into him in Borgin and Burkes. He was picking out a Christmas present for you, actually.”

She smiled. “I knew he hadn’t managed to find that book of Runes on his own.”

Draco smiled faintly. “He thought it was hilarious, how you questioned him about it.”

“I assumed a clerk had to have helped him. Harry never could have done that one his own.” Her smile faded. “Did you love him?”

He’d expected it but the question was still like a punch in the gut. He took another drink from his glass before answering. “Yes. Very much.”

“He loved you, too,” she mused. “Ron and I were so busy breaking up and getting back together again that we neglected Harry. But I know, looking back, that he was happier during that short time period than any time I’ve ever seen him, before or since. I mean, I know he loves Ginny, and having his kids made him happy, but I remember thinking he seemed lighter, somehow. And then,” she shook her head, and Draco saw tears fill her eyes. The sight made his own eyes sting. “And then, he was so sad,” she said finally. “I tried to get him to talk to me, but he wouldn’t.” She dashed at her eyes. “The day he married Ginny, I tried. He just said it didn’t matter, that everything turned out the way it was supposed to. But I couldn’t help but think he was trying to convince himself more than me.” She sniffed and looked up at him. “If you loved him, Draco, and he loved you, why –“ 

This was the hardest question to answer of all. He took a deep breath.

“Because I didn’t think – “ his throat threatened to close, and he cleared it roughly. “I didn’t believe he meant it when he – “ He couldn’t go on. His throat did close then, and the tears filled his eyes and spilled over. 

He heard Hermione stand and cross the room, felt her sit on the ottoman near his knees. She took his hand between hers and held it. 

“You didn’t believe he meant it when he – what, Draco?”

Draco had to swallow several times. Finally he managed to beat the lump back. 

“I didn’t believe he meant it,” he said, voice still sounding thick, “when he said I would be enough for him, that if he had me, he didn’t need anything else.”

“Why? Why didn’t you believe him?”

“Because he’s Harry Bloody Potter,” he answered. “Hero of the wizarding world. He deserved…” There went his eyes again, and he dashed at them angrily. He forced the next words out through a throat that hurt, it was so tight. “He deserved to be revered for what he’d done, not spit on because he was in love with _me_.”

He lost it then, as he hadn’t lost it in years. Angry at himself, he curled his arms over his stomach and lowered his head, trying to fight back a grief that was overwhelming in its intensity but it was stronger than he was. 

He felt Hermione’s arms come around him, felt her rest her forehead against his temple. “Oh, Draco,” she sighed, sniffing. “Leave it to you to be just as stubborn, and just as stupid, as Harry.”


	21. True Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**True Friendship**

The morning after Harry’s second appointment with Delius Fairweather, he awoke from a night where he didn’t have a single nightmare. In fact, he didn’t have a single _dream_. He’d slept uninterrupted through the night, and woke feeling rested for the first time in months. When he saw the date circled on the calendar that hung in his sparse, ugly little kitchen, what a week before would have felt like a chore suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea. He dressed casually in jeans, a lumpy jumper and a hooded jacket and Apparated from his sitting room directly onto the snowy lawn in front of Albus Dumbledore Children’s Hospital in Scotland.

There was already a group of people gathered together, and they turned when he appeared. Several smiled and waved, but as many seemed surprised to see him. 

Ron Weasley, his brilliant ginger hair gleaming in the bright sunlight, trudged over to meet Harry as he approached. 

“Well, look who’s here,” he called, shielding his eyes with his gloved hand. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I haven’t ever missed this,” Harry said, accepting a manly hug, complete with awkward pat on the back from his old friend. 

“No, but everyone would have understood if you had.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have,” Harry countered. “This is one of my favorite things of the holiday season. So, the teams divided up yet?”

Ron nodded. “Yep.” He grinned widely. “And Barnes and Griffith got hung with the giant squid this year!”

Harry laughed. “Excellent. What did we get?”

If possible, Ron’s grin grew even wider. “We got the Hogwart’s Express!”

“Yes!” 

He and Harry made their way to a stretch of untouched snow across from the entrance to the children’s hospital, and working in tandem, began to make a solid wall of snow nearly fifteen feet tall and a hundred feet long. Harry would glance behind them occasionally, and smiled when more and more little faces began appearing in the windows of all three floors.

The Auror squad from the Ministry had been making this annual visit to the Children’s Hospital every year for more than a decade. Endowed by a private fund set up by a trust just after the war, (a trust consisting of Donors Harry Potter and George Weasley), the Albus Dumbledore Children’s Hospital treated sick and injured wizarding children, including squibs, between the ages of birth and eighteen years. Harry and George kept a very low profile publicly, but they both served on the Hospital board. They were also very involved in events for the kids, and one of the patient’s favorites each year was the Christmas snow sculptures.

Each scene depicted something special about Dumbledore’s favorite place on earth, Hogwarts. One showed the great hall complete with four long tables, one showed the Quidditch pitch mid game, complete with small seekers chasing a tiny snitch, and one showed the lake complete with giant squid. And one, the kids favorite, showed the Hogwarts Express, complete with steam coming from the great smoke stack atop the engine.

It took the better part of the morning, but four hours later scenes familiar with anyone who had ever seen Hogwarts we complete down to the most minute detail. Heating charms were cast in the rooms, and the windows were thrown open so the kids inside could lean out and cheer their approval. Smiling, the Aurors bowed, doffed hats and waved, then Apparated into the Leaky Cauldron for some of Hannah Abbotts famous beef stew with dumplings and hot mulled cider. 

After chatting up his co-workers for a few minutes, Harry followed Ron to a table he’d acquired directly in front of the blazing fire. Grateful for the warmth, Harry removed his jacket and sat on a high stool, sipping his hot, rich cider. 

“So,” Ron said after taking a few sips of his own mug, “something you want to tell me?”

Harry frowned at him. “About?”

Ron leaned back in his chair and Harry watched him cast a _muffliato_ spell. 

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Some privacy,” Ron answered shortly. “And I repeat; anything you want to tell me?”

“Well, if you could give me a clue…”

“Okay. Anything you want to tell me about you and Malfoy?”

Harry stared at him, a sudden rushing in his ears. He’d expected something like this, just not so soon. He looked down into his mug. “What do you want to know?”

“Just two things,” Ron countered. “Number one, did you love my sister?”

Harry looked up at him, his brow furrowing. “What the hell, Ron? Of course I loved Ginny. I still do. You know that.”

Ron nodded slightly. “I thought you did. But then, I had no idea you’d had an affair with the ferret, either.”

“We didn’t have an affair,” Harry said. “I was…” He stopped, pursing his lips. 

“What? In love with him?” Ron asked mildly. Harry looked into his oldest friends eyes. “I can’t say I was exactly thrilled with the idea initially,” he said. “After all, Gin is my sister; I wanted to believe she was your first choice.” Harry had no answer to that, so he remained silent. “But given that you’ve never cheated on her, and Gin actually left you for Neville, I’m not a big enough bastard to say you had no right to consider someone else, something else. I am glad for my niece and nephews – “

“I adore my kids, Ron,” Harry broke in. 

“Let me finish,” Ron said. Harry nodded tightly. “I know you do. I’m just sorry you didn’t have the life you really wanted.” 

Harry gave him a wry look. “Even if that included Malfoy?”

“Even if it included Malfoy,” Ron said. “You forget, he and Hermione are friends. I’ve gotten to know the ferret over the years. He’s still snarky as shit, but –“ he shrugged, “he’s also, much to my surprise, a completely decent human being. Which is why I was genuinely concerned when I arrived home last night to find him crying on my wife’s shoulder in my drawing room.”

“Crying, as in…?” 

“Crying, as in sobbing,” Ron said. Harry leaned forward, alarmed.

“Is he all right?”

Ron shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so,” he answered finally. “Let me ask you something; why did the two of you break up, all those years ago?”

Harry winced at the memory. “I asked him to move in with me, to go public about our relationship. I wasn’t ashamed of it, of what we had, and I told him so. He told me, and I quote, that I was a ‘goddamned fool’. That it had been fun, but he was never serious about me. He planned to get married, have his heir, and that if I was smart I’d do the same. After that, he wouldn’t even take my owls.” Harry shrugged. “So I moved on with my life.”

Ron nodded. “You did. And you were a good husband, and you’re a good dad. But do you wonder if just maybe the reason the old stuff is bothering you now is that you and Malfoy have some unfinished business?”

Harry looked down into his cider. “Healer Fairweather seems to think so,” he mused. “And I suppose it’s possible that it’s all come back up because Ginny left and I’ve wondered ‘what if’, a lot. But it doesn’t matter. I did what Draco wanted; I left him alone.”

Ron sighed. “See, here’s the thing, Harry.” Ron drummed his fingers on the surface of the scarred tavern table. “When I found Malfoy sobbing in my sitting room, I of course asked what was wrong. Hermione wouldn’t tell me until later, when he had left. Seems he only told you what he did because he didn’t believe he was good enough for you. He told you he needed to get married and have an heir because he didn’t want his past, and the things he’d done, to reflect negatively on you. He was trying, in his own way, to protect you.”

Harry stared at him, his heart pounding. Slowly, he stood, slipping his arms into his jacket.

“What’re you doing?” Ron asked mildly.

“I need to find him,” Harry said. “I need to hear this from him.”

“I understand.” Ron rocked back onto the back legs of his stool. “But don’t you have an appointment with the Mind Healer pretty soon?”

Harry glanced at his watch, then nodded. “Half an hour.”

“Isn’t he joining you there?”

“I…” Harry exhaled. “Yeah, he is.”

Ron grinned. “So, sit down and have some stew. You’ll see him soon enough.”

Harry looked towards the tavern door, then down at his watch again. Ron was right; by the time he Apparated to Wiltshire and gained admittance to the manor, it would be time to see Delius again. 

He perched on the edge of his stool as two bowls and a platter of thick slices of bread appeared in front of them. Ron tucked in immediately. Harry didn’t think he’d manage a bite.


	22. A Mother's Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**A Mother's Wisdom**

Draco still felt raw the next day as he prepared to join Harry for his session with Delius. He honestly had considered sending an owl with his regrets, but he couldn’t bring himself to write it. He had begun this journey with Potter; this time, no matter how it hurt him, he would see it to its conclusion. After it was over he’d try to put himself back together again. He wouldn’t allow himself to think how long it had taken the last time.

He stood in his bedroom, surrounded by the opulent black and gold décor his mother had decorated it in while he’d been at school during his fourth year. He’d come home for the Christmas Hols, and found a man’s bedroom waiting for him. He’d been so thrilled. He loved the elegant bedding and the heavy black and gold headboard. There were candles everywhere, and even the Christmas tree in the far corner was decorated with black, bronze and gold ornaments. 

His favorite piece was the enormous armoire that took up the entirety of one wall. His mother had placed an expanding charm on it, and when he opened the doors and enormous walk-in closet that held his expansive wardrobe appeared. It also had what his mother called a ‘hidden private room’, about the size of a small pantry. He hadn’t understood its purpose initially, but more than once he’d hidden there when the monster was in possession of his home. He’d slept there often, afraid of that nasty great snake, afraid of its master. He’d hidden in the space, just big enough for him and a blanket and a pillow, secure in the knowledge that his mother had made it undetectable, and listened while the other Death Eaters searched his room for him. He knew she had saved him from the unwanted attentions of McNair, and Greyback. Just the memory of them sneaking into his room made his skin crawl, and he pushed the memory away forcefully. 

He studied the robes and the slacks and the jumpers, nothing jumping out at him. He didn’t care what he wore. After his time with Hermione the afternoon before, the last thing he wanted to do was be in the same room with Potter. His emotions were too raw, too close to the surface. It frightened him that his single goal going in was not to cry. 

A soft knock sounded on his bedroom door. “Draco?”

Draco sighed. There was no avoiding this. “Come in, Mother.”

He didn’t turn when he heard the door open. He just stared at the expensive clothing, unable to see the difference between one outfit and another. He remembered how obsessed he’d been with his wardrobe when he’d been younger, and shook his head. 

“Darling, are you all right?” She was standing near his elbow, and he marveled at how quietly she moved. 

“I’m fine,” he answered, forcing himself to reach out and pull a black cashmere jumper from its padded hanger. He tossed it behind him onto the bed. He added black slim cut jeans to the pile, then pulled a black leather blazer out on its hanger, and hung it over the open armoire door.

His mother crossed to the bed, picking up the jumper and smoothing her hand over the soft fabric. “This isn’t a very festive ensemble.”

He sighed. “Why in the world would I want to be festive?”

She looked up at him, pale blue eyes faintly injured. “Well, it is three days until Christmas, Draco. This looks as if you’re going to a funeral.”

“Maybe I feel as if I am,” he muttered, pulling the dark blue jumper he’d been wearing over his head and throwing it into a hamper.

“This has to do with Mr. Potter, hasn’t it?”

Draco scowled. “Not all of my foul moods revolve around Potter, Mother.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, and he snatched up the jeans and crossed to his ensuite. She was his mother and he loved her, but he’d long since stopped changing in front of her. 

“That’s true,” Narcissa said. “Just the ones lately.”

He didn’t say anything, just stripped out of his slacks and yanked on the snug jeans, zipping and fastening them. His mother studied him as he approached. 

“Darling, you must begin eating again,” she murmured, holding out his jumper. “You don’t have weight to spare, and you’re terribly thin.”

He pulled the jumper over his head, then reached up to flatten his hair. “That’s so flattering, Mother. Thank you.”

She huffed and grabbed his hand, and for a moment he actually considered yanking his hand away. But she was his mother, and he didn’t. He didn’t meet her eyes, either.

She sighed, then chuckled softly. “Even at forty one years of age, you can be the most exasperating brat.”

He did look at her then, one brow arched. “Brat? Really?”

“Well, when one walks like a duck, and talks like a duck…” She returned his look with amusement. He huffed in exasperation but sat heavily beside her. She patted the back of his hand. “Now, talk to me. Please.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yes,” he said finally. “It is about Potter.” 

“Yes.” She squeezed his hand. “And?”

There was no point in not telling her the truth. He’d never been able to lie to her. 

“When we… separated, all of those years ago, I told him what we had was fun, but I wasn’t in love with him.”

She frowned. “But darling, you were.”

He swallowed. “Yes. I was. And I told him it was time for me to marry and produce an heir.”

Narcissa shook her head. “As much as I love Scorpius, I never demanded you do that. And your father certainly wasn’t in a position to demand anything.” Lucius had gone to prison immediately following the war, and neither of them had seen him in years. The wounds of what he’d put them through were too deep. “I could see how happy you were,” she went on, “And after the horrors that you’d already been forced to experience, all I wished for was your happiness.”

He nodded. “I know, Mother.”

“So why did you lie to him?” She studied the side of his face as he remained stoically silent. “Oh, Draco,” she sighed finally. “You were trying to protect him, weren’t you?”

“He thought we would be fine, Mother,” he said. He would not cry again, dammit, he thought, forcing his emotions down. “He was so completely innocent of how it could impact him. He believed it would all be fine, that people would just accept us. I had to.”

She studied him, then nodded thoughtfully. “I can certainly see why you would believe that.” She leaned against his arm. “But, darling, you should have given him the opportunity to have an opinion about it, and you didn’t. It impacted him, too.”

Draco nodded. “I know.”

She rubbed his hand, then stood. “You finish getting ready. I’ll not tell you what to do. I will say,” she reached forward and caught his chin in her hand, making him look at her, “that the sins of your father should not fall on your shoulders. Nor should Mr. Potter be forced to pay any longer for decisions that were made for him, first by Voldemort, and then, however altruistically, by you. You still love him. Perhaps you should let him have a say in what happens this time around?” She leaned in and kissed him lightly, then smiled and turned and left the room.

Draco stared at the door for a moment, then lurched to his feet and grabbed a silk button down from the armoire. He ripped the jumper off over his head, jamming his arms into the button down’s sleeves as he raced into the ensuite to fix his hair.

oooOOOooo

Harry paced in Delius’s waiting room, his hands shoved into his pockets. He was early, but he’d been unable to stay on his seat in the Leaky any longer. Ron had bid him goodbye indulgently, a smile around his lips.

Gods, he was nervous. His hands were freezing and his chest felt tight, and all he wanted was to see Draco, to speak to him. To find out if what Ron had told him was true. When he heard the door behind him open, he turned in place and then froze, staring.

Draco stepped into the office, wearing snug jeans, a white button down beneath a black jumper, and an impeccably cut black leather blazer. His hair looked windblown, and Harry had a sudden, almost overwhelming need to sink his hands into it. Draco held his eyes as the door closed behind him.

The air between them was so thick you could cut it with a knife.


	23. Sins Forgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**Sins Forgiven**

Harry opened his mouth to say, something, anything.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Delius said from the open door to his office. “Shall we?” He gestured expansively with his arm, and waited.

Draco dragged his eyes away from Harry, then moved towards Delius, his hands diving into the pockets of his coat. He passed Harry, and the scent of his cologne filled Harry’s head. Harry closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. 

“Harry, do you plan to join us?”

He opened his eyes and realized that Draco had already disappeared into the office and Delius was waiting for him. Harry’s face heated as he moved past Delius and through the open door. 

Draco was standing near the fireplace inside, his back to the room, his head lowered as if he was staring into the flames. Harry paused just inside the door and heard Delius close it at his back.

“All right,” Delius said brightly. “Shall we begin?”

Unsure what else to do, Harry went to the chair where he usually sat, his hands moving restlessly on his thighs as he sat down. Draco moved more slowly, almost hesitantly and took a chair across from Harry. He kept his eyes averted and he clasped his hands so hard in front of him that his knuckles were white. Delius settled gracefully into his seat and waved his wand, lighting the candles on his desk. They rose and floated between them, their illumination providing light that washed their faces in splashes of soft color. Just looking at them made Harry feel sleepy, and he didn’t want that. Not today.

“No, wait,” he said abruptly. Delius arched his brows and angled his head to one side. “Before we do this, I… we…” He paused, his eyes jerking to Draco. “Draco,” he said. He saw Draco still, his body stiff. “Draco, please. Look at me.”

It looked like it took effort for him to drag his eyes from the floor, and even more for him to meet Harry’s gaze. 

“So,” he said, his lips scarcely moving. “I’m looking. What?”

Harry wanted so desperately to touch him, to ease the obvious fear in the pale gray eyes. But there were things that had to be dealt with first.

“Why did you lie to me?”

Draco jerked his gaze away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” Harry countered. “Why did you say what we had wasn’t serious, that you needed to get married and have an heir? Why did you say those things to me?”

“Because they were true,” Draco spat, his eyes coming back, angry now. “You don’t understand, Potter. You never did. I had responsibilities, things that were expected of me. Things that—“

“You can give it up, now,” Harry broke in. “Ron saw you with Hermione, Draco. And she told him the truth.”

Draco went so rigid he almost looked made of stone. 

“Draco,” Harry went on, rising from his chair and moving until he was in front of him, then going down on one knee. He carefully reached out, closing his hand over Draco’s. They were so cold, but it was the faint tremble in them that made Harry’s heart ache. “Draco,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I know, okay? I know. You shouldn’t have made decisions for me. I knew what I was doing.”

“But you didn’t,” Draco whispered back. “You were just being… you, certain if you wanted something you would be able to make it happen. That no one would care who you were involved with. But they would have, Harry. Everything you’d done wouldn’t have mattered a damn if you suddenly said you were in love with a Malfoy. Can’t you see that?”

Harry shook his head slowly. “You should have let me decide if it mattered, Draco. You shouldn’t have taken the decision away from me.”

Draco closed his eyes. “Merlin, Harry. You’d have walked into the whole thing completely unprepared. And you’d have ended up—“ He stopped talking, sealing his lips tight over his teeth.

“I’d have ended up what?” Harry prodded. Draco shook his head tightly. “Tell me. I’d have ended up what?”

“You’d have ended up hating him. Isn’t that right, Draco?” Delius leaned forward, his eyes intense on Draco. “You were afraid he’d end up hating you, and so you decided a pre-emptive strike made more sense. Isn’t that right?”

Draco bit his lower lip, and Harry saw his eyes fill. He knew how much Draco hated to appear weak, knew how much he must be hating this. He squeezed the cold, rigid hands, trying to impart some of his warmth.

“Draco,” Delius said gently, “did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong? That Harry might actually have known what he was doing, and that he didn’t care because he loved you, too?”

Draco swallowed. It was audible in the quiet room. “He didn’t know. And because I… ended it, he went on to be what everyone expected. He married the Weaslette, had the three children, became the youngest Head Auror in history. He’s Harry Potter, the wizarding world’s savior. And they love him.” He looked up into Harry’s eyes. “They wouldn’t have loved you, Harry. Not if you were with me.”

“But Draco,” Delius said. “Because you broke things off so abruptly, you left him with more questions than answers. He went on to be what the wizarding world wanted, but not what _he_ wanted. And I think,” he slowed, his eyes going to Harry’s face, “he’s always known it wasn’t what you wanted, either. He did what you said you wanted, but in the back of his mind he’s always worried you were still somehow being manipulated.” 

Harry sat back on his heels, his eyes on the floor. He _had_ worried that Draco’s father was somehow managing him from prison. He’d had nightmares about it in the beginning. He stilled. Nightmares, even then.

“So, why did this start surfacing now?” He turned and looked at Delius. “Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Delius nodded thoughtfully. “I think it’s part of it, yes. I think you add your concerns about Draco to your general feeling of dissatisfaction with your current situation, and it’s probable. I won’t know for certain until we do some more work, but knowing what I do now, I’m not surprised that your triggering mechanism would be things you think of as a threat to Draco.”

“And with that, I’ll excuse myself.” He stood. “I believe what the two of you need today, more than any regression, is to talk.” He walked to the door, then paused and turned back. “I’ll make an appointment for you for tomorrow, Harry. We still have work to do. And do not lie to one another within this space,” he said softly. “It’s become a haven of sorts for both of you. Within these walls, tell only the truth. Please.” He gave them a soft smile and left. 

Harry rose, his knees popping audibly. He pulled his chair over until their knees were nearly touching, then sat and looked deeply into Draco’s eyes. “I should be really angry at you,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “And yet all I can seem to think is, ‘he didn’t really mean it. ‘ I _did_ mean more to him than he said at the end.” He looked deeply into Draco’s eyes, searching. “When you told me you loved me, you meant it.”

Draco’s eyes darkened, and he exhaled, then nodded. “With everything in me. I’d never wanted anything in my life as much as I wanted you. Telling you it hadn’t meant anything to me –“ he shook his head “—I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”

Harry rested his hands on Draco’s knees, palm up. And he waited. After what felt like a long time, Draco settled his palms against Harry’s. Harry curled his fingers around Draco’s hands with a soft, relieved sigh. “What about now, Draco? Do you trust that when I say ‘I love you’, I know what I’m doing?”

Draco’s eyes widened. “You do?” he whispered. “Still?”

“With everything in me,” Harry said, repeating Draco’s words back to him. 

Harry scarcely had a chance to take another breath before Draco was surging forward, wrapping his arms around his neck and taking his lips in a frantic, desperate kiss. Harry opened his mouth when Draco’s tongue touched his lips, and he moaned when it slipped between his teeth. He kissed Draco back, just as hard, just as needy, and sucked on Draco’s tongue. 

Draco pulled back, his eyes avid on Harry’s face. “I want you,” he said. “In my arms, in my bed, in _me_.”

“Yes,” Harry answered. “To all of the above.”

A brief smile lit Draco’s lips. “Hold on.”

Harry closed his eyes, rested his forehead against Draco’s, and let him Apparate them away.

oooOOOooo

Draco couldn’t believe it was real. The words he’d dreamed of for more than two decades without real hope of ever hearing were being whispered in his ear even as they landed in the middle of his bedroom.

“I love you,” Harry said, pulling him full length against him, managing for once to not even stumble on landing. His hard body was heaven against Draco’s, his hands moving over his sides and his back and his arse. “I love you so goddamned much.”

“I love you, too,” Draco said between kisses, one hand in Harry’s hair, the other curled around his nape. He plucked at Harry’s jacket. “Too many clothes,” he muttered. “Too many fucking clothes.”

Harry laughed breathlessly, stepping back and yanking his jumper over his head. He threw it aside, and Draco took in the mature body of Harry Potter. And almost came in his trousers.

“Merlin’s balls, Harry,” he whispered, unable to resist running his palms over the strong, tensile shoulders, the hard pecs, the striated stomach. He rubbed his thumbs over his hard nipples, curled his palms over the bulging muscles above Harry’s hipbones and tried to pull him in. “You’re a fucking wet dream.”

Harry grinned, then pushed his hands away and peeled Draco out of his blazer.


	24. Back Where He Belongs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**Back Where He Belongs**

The leather jacket landed on the floor, and it was testament to how aroused he was that Draco couldn’t have cared less. Harry’s hands slid down his back, caressing the cashmere jumper as he leaned in and opened his mouth on the side of Draco’s throat.

“Soft,” he breathed, the moist heat of his breath raising gooseflesh on Draco’s skin. 

“Just… help me… get it…” Draco tried to drag it off over his head while Harry was still kissing his throat, but he couldn’t get his arms crossed between them. Harry chuckled.

“Such a rush,” he teased, but he stepped back and let Draco rip the offending garment off over his head. Immediately, Harry’s fingers went to the buttons down Draco’s chest. “Talk about too many clothes,” he said with a slight smile. Draco studied his face, saw the softness around Harry’s eyes, and the new angles of his face. He’d seen them before, of course. As often as Harry appeared on the cover of the damned _Prophet_ , of course he’d seen it. But being this close, taking in the hard cut of his jaw, the clear green of his eyes, the length of his black lashes, he was so handsome it took Draco’s breath. And then Harry opened Draco’s shirt, and his mother’s words came back to him. For a moment, he wanted to yank away and hide his thinner body.

Moments later he could see that he needn’t have worried.

Harry’s hands came to his skin, shades darker than the white flesh, and the awe in his eyes couldn’t be denied.

“God, Draco,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful. Still so damned beautiful.”

Draco tore the shirt off and threw it aside, and stepped into Harry’s arms, unable to wait a moment longer. After two decades, the feeling of Harry’s hard body against his, of his warm smooth skin pressed to his, almost brought tears to his eyes. 

“Harry,” he sighed. “Please.”

Harry knew what he was asking for. He pulled him even tighter against his body and took Draco’s mouth in a deep, searching kiss. Harry’s hands slid down Draco’s long back, and Draco’s speared back into Harry’s thick hair and they moved, slowly as if in a dance, kissing as Harry steered him toward the bed. When the back of his thighs hit the mattress, Harry spread his hand on Draco’s chest and pressed him down onto his back. With a sly, wicked smile, he leaned over and unfastened Draco’s trousers, pulling both slacks and briefs down with one smooth slide. Only to have them catch on his shoes. 

Draco rose up onto his elbows. “Boots, Harry,” he said with a slight laugh. “Unzip.”

“Ah, I remember these.” Harry managed to get the half boots off and then slacks, briefs and boots were tossed aside. His own shoes were toed off, then he was yanking open his jeans, shoving them down strong thighs. 

His cock sprang into view, thick and hard, arching up from the black curls at its base. Draco sat up, his eyes lifting for a moment to Harry’s face before he caught his hips and pulled him in, leaning down to catch his hardness in his hand. He stroked it up and down, and Harry made a sound in his throat that turned to a gasp when Draco took him into his mouth. He was hot and firm and perfect, and Draco opened his throat, savoring the salty taste of pre-come on his tongue.

“Gods, Draco,” Harry sighed, his hands spreading over Draco’s shoulders, then sliding down his back. When the hard fingers of one hand massaged his arse, Draco pulled back.

“Get up here,” Draco ordered, curling his hands around Harry’s ribcage pulling. Harry pushed him back and lay on top of him, and Draco moaned, opening himself, his arms, his legs, wrapping them around Harry, holding on tight. He latched on to Harry’s collar bone and sucked hard, and Harry arched his back, rubbing his cock against Draco’s. Heat shot down Draco’s spine and he began to shake. “Stop,” he said when Harry made another circular thrust against his groin. “Stop, or I’ll come right now.”

Harry’s licked his throat, then nipped at the spot he’d sucked before, the sting curling Draco’s toes. “Is this a bad thing?” Harry asked against his ear. 

“For this first time, I want you inside me when I come,” Draco managed. “Please.”

Harry lifted his head and stared into Draco’s eyes, his full of love and lust and the remnants of pain. Draco lifted his hand and cupped Harry’s cheek, his thumb stroking his full lower lip. “Please, Harry.”

Harry nodded, kissing Draco’s thumb, then nipping it with straight white teeth. “Lube? Condoms?”

“Beside table,” Draco murmured. “But you don’t need a condom.”

Harry had started to move toward the low piece of furniture, and he stopped, his eyes wide. “Haven’t you…?”

Draco shook his head. “Just Astoria. You?”

Harry looked stunned. “Just Ginny. I just assumed…”

Draco shook his head again, and Harry closed his eyes. “I couldn’t,” Draco said, his hand stroking up Harry’s forearm, over his bicep. “I couldn’t cheat –“

Harry groaned. “Draco.” He pulled open the drawer and grabbed the bottle he found there. 

After that everything was a blur of slick fingers and whispered endearments and a rush of heat and poignant need while Harry carefully prepared him, kissing him the whole time. Draco had never even allowed himself to dream of this happening again, so when Harry pressed his knees to his chest and carefully entered him, tears did fill his eyes. Harry paused.

“Am I hurting you?” he said. Draco could see the strain in his broad shoulders, the tension in his arms. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

“You aren’t hurting me, Harry,” Draco said, curling his hand around Harry’s nape. “Just love me, please.”

Harry leaned down and kissed him. “I will,” he said between kisses. “I do.”

He began to move then, carefully at first, but when Draco begged him to go harder, faster, Harry complied. Heat spread through Draco’s pelvis, and when Harry’s cock stroked across his prostate, he cried out.

“There,” he gasped. “Right there.”

Harry held the angle, thrust even harder and faster and Draco’s eyes rolled into his head. 

“Yes,” he said, his nails digging into Harry’s biceps. “Yes!”

“Are you close?” Harry gasped. “Please be close, because I can’t—“

“I am.” Draco’s head arched off the pillow. He couldn’t even speak any more; his sphincter began to clench of its own volition and without his ever touching it, his cock jerked as streams of white painted Harry’s tawny skin. Harry cried out at the feeling of Draco’s hot come, and he stiffened, his body shuddering. Draco could feel the wet heat filling him, and he was unable to hold onto the control he’d managed until then. Breath hitching, eyes streaming, he cried.

And when Harry rolled them, pulling carefully from Draco’s body and cradling him against his chest, he cried, too.

oooOOOooo

Draco was dreaming.

It was a beautiful spring day, and the Manor gardens were overflowing with the most spectacular flowers. Smiling faces turned to him, and from somewhere harp music came, playing a lovely, lilting melody. He was walking, his mother on his arm, and she was holding a lace handkerchief she occasionally lifted to damp eyes. 

And then Harry was there, waiting, unbelievably beautiful in formal attire, and he was smiling. He reached out his hand, and Draco kissed his mother’s cheek before turning to Harry and taking his hand. Harry pulled him close to his side, and they both turned, facing a man who looked suspiciously like the Minister for Magic.

“Dearly Beloved,” Snodgrass began, “We are gathered here…”

Draco’s eyes shot open and he stared up at the dark ceiling, his heart pounding. He blinked. At his side he heard a soft sigh, and then strong arms snaked around him, pulling him close. 

“Are you all right?” the deep voice asked. 

Draco nodded. “Just had a dream.”

Harry kissed his jawline, then his ear. “A good dream?”

He smiled slowly.

“The very best.”


	25. Happiest New Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was the photo below.

**Happiest New Year**

Harry stood on the balcony of their hotel suite, his arms draped over the marble balaustraude, a blanket wrapped around his hips and a warming charm cast over his bare chest. He could hear the New Year’s revelers far below, but his eyes were lifted, enjoying the incomparable view of Big Ben against the blackened sky.

So much had changed in the past few months, his life didn’t remotely resemble where it had been the December before. The tension in his shoulders that never seemed to ease was gone, and he smiled more than he thought he had in the whole of his life. His episodes of PTSD had diminished in intensity before stopping entirely, thanks in large part to the work he continued to do with Delius Fairweather. Delius had become a good friend to Draco at the conclusion of his therapy, but now Harry counted him among his best friends, too. In fact, it was Delius who had suggested one of the biggest changes in Harry’s life.

“Do you like being an Auror?” he asked one day, his expression thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Harry answered a bit defensively. “Why?”

Delius shrugged. “Because it seems to me that you describe it more as a duty you have to perform, rather than a career you enjoy.” Harry frowned thoughtfully. “So I’ll ask you again; do you like being Head Auror?”

Harry didn’t answer as quickly this time. He was really trying to get his head on straight, and he knew taking Delius’s questions seriously, and answering truthfully, was part of that.

“I think I liked it in the beginning, but it was because it was something I knew I’d be good at.”

Delius nodded. “And now?”

“I am good at it.” Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

Delius gave him a wry smile. “You’re almost as good at avoiding answering a direct question as Draco is,” he said. “Which doesn’t necessarily bode well for your relationship.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, then sighed. He’d never said the truth out loud before, baldly, not to anyone. Not even Draco.

“No,” he admitted finally. “I don’t like being Head Auror. I don’t like being an Auror at all. I’ve had my fill of it.” Harry straightened in his chair. “I told Draco not long ago that I’d like to do something that made a difference.” He smiled slightly. “He made a joke, something about didn’t I think I’d already done that.”

Delius grinned. “Well, you have done that in rather heroic fashion.” Harry shifted again uncomfortably, and Delius chuckled. “Someday we’re going to figure out why it is that you’re so uncomfortable accepting credit where credit is due. But, if you could be anything, do anything you wanted, what would it be, Harry?”

He thought about it silently for several long moments, but there was really only one answer. “I’d like to teach,” he finally answered wistfully. “I’d like to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.”

Delius’s eyebrows rose. “Can you imagine anyone more qualified?”

Harry met his gaze. “They’ve never asked.”

“Harry.” Delius shook his head in exasperation. “Has it occurred to you they might be hesitant to ask a sitting Head Auror if he’d like to stake a significant cut in prestige if nothing else –“

“I’ve never cared about any of that,” Harry broke in.

“Be that as it may,” Delius went on, “I think it’s fair to say most Head Auror’s wouldn’t want to trade in their badge to teach. Why would the headmistress think you’d be any different?”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that. When Delius suggested he drop McGonagall a line, he could think of no good reason he shouldn’t. And when he’d received her delighted response with an offer for him to teach the following term, Harry submitted his resignation the next day.

There were some who weren’t happy about it. Ron initially had a terrible time with it, but he came around. And Al, so near the beginning of his own law enforcement career, had been disappointed. But Lily had been thrilled and James supportive, and Draco had gone weak with relief.

“You mean I won’t have to worry about getting a floo call telling me what’s left of you is at St. Mungo’s? Why in the world would you think I wouldn’t support that decision?”

Harry had smiled weakly. “I know Professor Potter isn’t nearly as sexy as Head Auror Potter.”

Draco had held his face between his hands. “You’re wrong,” he breathed. “Whatever brings you home to me, safe and sound, is sexy as hell.”

And Hermione had wrapped her arms around him, and cried. When Ron had wryly commented that perhaps he should quit, too, she’d brushed tears from her face and sharply reminded him that unlike Harry, he seemed to have a pretty well developed survival instinct. Ron had shut up after that.

Harry proposed to Draco on February twelfth, the day after his last shift as Head Auror, and Draco had accepted his proposal, and his ring. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who Harry thought should have always had the job, took over the following Monday. And Harry took over DADA from Professor Mesteria, a teacher on loan from Beauxbaton’s, when the students returned from Spring hols. He had been teaching daily now for over a year, and he absolutely loved it. He had never felt more filled with purpose than he had since he walked into the old DADA room as Professor Potter.

He and Draco had talked about marrying in the Spring in Malfoy Manors gardens, but Draco decided he really didn’t want to marry in his father’s house, even on the grounds, after all. They chose the Atrium at the Ministry for the formal ceremony, and the ballroom downstairs in this very hotel for the reception. He thought he could dimly hear the orchestra still playing, but he and Draco had slipped out of their own party shortly after cutting the cake. And then they’d had a very satisfying private celebration. He smiled. Very satisfying, indeed.

“So what’s that ‘cat that ate the cream’ smile all about, Mr. Potter-Malfoy?” Long arms snaked around his waist and a bare chest pressed to his back. Harry straightened and leaned back into Draco’s embrace.

“I thought I was the cat that ate you,” he replied. Draco huffed, but rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Coarse, Mr. Potter-Malfoy,” he sniffed. “Coarse.”

“But you liked it, Mr. Malfoy-Potter,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder at his delightfully mussed husband. “Admit it, you liked it.”

Draco rolled his eyes but a smile played around his lips. “You have your useful moments.”

Harry laughed, covering Draco’s hands on his chest. “Glad I could be of service, sir.”

A pop sounded above their heads, and Harry looked up. All around the majestic sight of Big Ben, fireworks began to explode in vivid yellows, reds, oranges and greens. He watched them for several minutes, lighting the sky above London, before he turned his face to the side.

“Happy New Year, Draco,” he said, loud enough his husband could hear.

Draco’s arms tightened around him. “Happy New Year, Harry. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Harry said against Draco’s lips, then proved it by kissing him. With everything in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder...this was a repost of my fic for the 2014 25 Days of Draco and Harry. I hope you still enjoy it.


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